


Little Animals

by amybeegood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 404 Ben Solo Not Found, A Blow Torch May Be Involved At Some Point, A Dark Modern Version of Beauty and the Beast, After Chapter Seven, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Some Other Really Fucked Up Shit, Attempted Forced Pregnancy, Ben Solo is Not Nice, Blood and Gore, Complete, Confinement, Corruption, DARK DARK DARK, Dark Kylo Ren, Dark Rey (Star Wars), Dark Reylo, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disturbing Themes, Drug Addiction, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Heroin Use, Gang Rape, Gaslighting, Graphic Rape, Gruesome Violence, Illegal Disposal of Human Remains, Kidnapping, Kylo Ren Has 99 Problems and A Bitch Is All of Them, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Sells Drugs To Kids, Kylo Ren is, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Loss of Virginity, Lotta smut tho, Metaphors, Midterm Miscarriage, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, Obsessive Kylo Ren, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Kylo Ren, Power Dynamics, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey's Pet Monster Is a Very Good Beast, Sex at gunpoint, Smut, Someone Has a Bit of A Daddy Kink and I'm as Surprised As You Are, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, The following tags added for chapters five and six:, Unreliable Narrator, Violent Sex, We will get a sequel someday, and i cannot stress this enough, more choking, nonconsensual anal sex, not nice, this is so fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 08:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 95,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amybeegood/pseuds/amybeegood
Summary: A dark version of Beauty and the Beast, if the Beauty is a bit of a con artist and the Beast is a dirty cop/drug dealer.This is a Dark Reylo Anthology fic for the theme "obsession."





	1. Coercion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HouseOfFinches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseOfFinches/gifts), [Athelise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athelise/gifts).



> Author’s Note: This story includes scenes of graphic rape and violence, suicidal ideation, torture, strong violence and other disturbing themes. 
> 
> Please review the tags and proceed with caution. This is not like my other stuff. This is fucking dark. Pitch black.
> 
> Tags will be updated as the story goes on. But, look. I can’t tag everygoddamnthing, and frankly, there’s some stuff coming up. Heavy stuff. Big stuff. Am I going to tell you what it is? No.
> 
> Uh, why?
> 
> Because it will spoil the shit out of my story, and also because you are big kids. I am under the assumption that if you’ve READ THE TAGS, you can handle what’s coming.
> 
> If not?
> 
> Nobody held a gun to your head and made you read this.
> 
> So if you can’t handle the heat, that’s okay. But now’s a good time to move out of the kitchen.
> 
> As for the rest of you? Brace yourselves, my little animals.
> 
> I’ll show you the Dark Side.
> 
> [Little Animals Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/69Wv2dT2a1hmW31gS9WG0v?si=4jtqHVI5SBmZ4oZcpDACig)
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@beegood_amy](https://twitter.com/beegood_amy) for updates to my ever-growing smut collection and occasional tweets. XOXO!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I Only Have Eyes For You, The Flamingos](https://open.spotify.com/track/3pHKy8Vmwi52p7V9ADdmTU?si=vYtnLa35Tsi_J0DpU-Q0yw)

#  __

#  _Chapter One – Coercion_

co·er·cion | \ kō-ˈər-zhən, -shən\

**Definition of _coercion_**

**:** the act, process, or power of coercing; They used _coercion_ to obtain the confession.

co·erce | \ kō-ˈərs \

 **coerced** ; **coercing**

**Definition of _coerce_**

_transitive verb_

**1:** to compel to an act or choice; was _coerced_ into agreeing; abusers who _coerce_ their victims into silence

 **2:** to achieve by force or threat; _coerce_ compliance; _coerce_ obedience

 **3:** to restrain or dominate by force; religion in the past has tried to _coerce_ the irreligious— W. R. Inge

* * *

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe.

The bite of his fingers haunts my jaw. Ghostlike pains stab my chest as I breathe, each inhalation pulled cautiously through my teeth in case he’s lingering nearby. I must be careful. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.

_Wish I could disappear._

My entire existence twists down into one place, deep inside, into the part he hasn’t killed yet, where I might set aside the aches gnawing into my bones and try to think.

_Wish I had some water._

If I could look in a mirror, I would see the bruises.

I can’t do that, though, look in a mirror. I can’t move or see much of anything.

I try to focus. He is not here.

The stifling darkness obscures my prison, although I can see it in my mind’s eye. My arms stretch overhead. One cold metal cuff tightly clasps each wrist.

I can’t see much, but I can think, despite the grinding pain, always at the edge of my mind. I use my other senses – smell, touch, hearing, taste – to take stock of my surroundings in the brief hiatus before he returns.

In addition to a cracked rib and a bruised face, an aching tenderness throbs between my legs. A sharper sting where my lip has split reminds me I will feel numb soon enough.

When he comes back.

My tongue sneaks out to test the extent of my newest injury. I run the tip along raised, cut flesh, still pulsing and tender.

_Not too bad this time. Good._

My lip is okay, just sore and cracked from being so dry. Everything is sore and dry.

I’m dehydrated and who knew it would be such a painful experience, not having enough water?

The headache grows worse every day, nearly unbearable, a constant, sinister pounding behind my eyes.

Reminding me I am mortal.

I am going to die. Soon, I think.

Nine days have passed, based on the tiny dents I’ve been able to scratch into the headboard next to my head. Although he keeps me in near pitch-darkness, I can feel the small ridges I’ve dug into the wood with my fingernails. I count nine, which means I’ve woken up nine times.

I really don’t know if actual _days_ have passed or if my sleep schedule is just off. Maybe only hours lapse between stretches of unconsciousness. That idea is too horrible, though, the thought that time crawls by so slowly. It would mean I am only extending my misery into eternity.

I don’t know what’s worse: The thought of time passing more slowly than I realize, dragging my precious minutes into infinite desolation, or that it speeds by far too quickly, hustling my hours and days to a nightmarish end.

I don’t want to die. I don’t my last breaths of life to terminate in this hell.

I want _water_.

I am dreadfully thirsty. I haven’t been given nearly enough to drink.

Not since he took me.

I was in my shop the day my life changed forever. An off-the-beaten-path little hole-in-the-wall place in a part of the city everyone with money long abandoned, while those of us without it stayed and tried to scavenge an existence. An old consignment shop turned fortune-teller’s, once my partner and I realized lies are easier to sell than the discarded possessions of strangers.

A faint mustiness always clung, but that was easily concealed with plenty of incense, which coincidentally lent a not-unwelcome, obscure mystery to the atmosphere.

Scarves and beads and oddly assorted bric-a-brac completed the illusion I was an enigmatic woman of knowledge, of foresight.

_Foresight._

I would laugh but I can’t find humor in my current situation. Only a nauseating sort of irony.

Had I truly owned the foresight so boldly proclaimed by the flashy reader board outside my shop, I would not find myself here, in Hell itself.

**Fortune Teller**

**~ INSIDE ~**

**_potions sold and dreams foretold_ **

**CASH ONLY**

**Walk-ins Welcome**

**_ask for Madam Sunshine_ **

I want to feel the sun on my face one last time.

My fingernails grow more ragged than usual from my attempts to escape, but so far they have proven no match for a solid oak headboard and hard metal handcuffs. And, as much as I long to sink my claws into the flesh of my captor, my current predicament provides no such opportunity. Yet.

No such opportunity _yet_ , I tell myself.

However, I can wait. I can be patient. So long as I hold on to hope.

He’s not here, but…soon, I think.

I drift.

I wake every time, just before he returns, and I’m reduced to an animal-like reality, near-quivering with terror and eagerness in similar amounts. He hurts me, but he is my sole source of water and food and light.

I need water. I need it soon.

I might not know just how much time passes, but I sense he’s on a pretty regular schedule.

My eyes snap open when I recognize keys rattling at the front door, the creak of it opening, the soft click of latches falling back into place, the tread of booted feet moving through the house.

I am never filled with such perfect apprehension as I am at the sound of those measured thumps. I know what they mean. I know what time it is.

I try desperately to gather some spit into my mouth so I can swallow the lump of fear expanding at the back of my throat as I listen intently to those steps. They grow softer – _he’s out there_ – then louder, until they pause, right outside the door to my room.

The door opens softly, and a gentle golden light spills around the edges to silhouette my own personal devil. It’s him, of course.

It’s always him.

“ _Hey,_ baby girl.”

He says the same thing every day. I take a breath and wonder how long I can fight today before he wins and forces me to drink my _potion._ That is what he calls the drugged water he gives me, potion. I think he believes the reference to be as ironically amusing as my fortune-telling sign.

My belly swoops with fear.

“You must be _so thirsty_ , honey. Look, I brought you something to drink.”

I want it and I don’t. This is part of the dance, the ritual, the ever-expanding illusion I cling to.

“Not thirsty.” The lie, same as always, escapes my dry throat and cracked lips.

I am so fucking thirsty I want to cry.

I am parched, and I know he’s doing this on purpose, keeping me like this. On the edge of survival.

“Don’t. _Lie_.” His voice is whiskey shot with honey, raspy-low, and scratchy-sweet, never quite hiding the menace behind the sugar.

The first time I heard it, I thought it was beautiful, thought _he_ was beautiful, all tall and dark-haired and amber-eyed.

I thought he was a nice guy.

“Don’t want that,” I mumble, warily eying the plastic water bottle he carries. But my reply is fumbled, clumsy and thick-tongued from the dryness in my mouth, and it holds no authority in tone or delivery. If I had anything in my stomach I would vomit.

He shakes the bottle in three harsh pumps, and I wince at the startling, sloshing noise. It’s loud and my head hurts.

I glare at him.

If he will not let me go, I wish he would at least leave me the hell alone.

He doesn’t, of course. He comes closer.

I monitor his approach, his shadow dark in contrast to the golden light flowing in from the open door behind him. I watch his long, dexterous fingers unscrew the bottle’s cap.

He sounds annoyed and my pulse skips wildly at the silken warning in his voice. “Don’t _lie_ , baby girl, I _know_ you’re thirsty.”

I am. I’m so thirsty I hurt from it.

He presses the edge of the bottle to my mouth, the plastic spiral pushing hard against my lips.

The cut on my bottom lip throbs angrily, a reminder of the inevitable if I fight too hard. A little resistance is okay, but too much leads to punishment.

I wonder if I will ever not be bruised and suffering again. If I will ever be… _whole_ …again.

I’m dehydrated and cannot cry but if I could produce tears, they would be frustrated and powerless and copious.

I turn away, but he quickly grasps my face, strong impatient fingers biting into my jaw over old bruises that will never fade if he keeps doing that. He does it every time. Another part of our dance.

He holds me still and tilts the bottle. A wet trickle slides across my cheek.

I don’t want it, but I’m so thirsty. My dying body clamors anxiously, demanding me to drink, _drink_ the water, who cares if it’s drugged? _Just drink._

“Please don’t have a bad day, honey.”

A slight emphasis on the words _bad day_ implies I have a choice in the outcome of all this. As if all my days aren’t bad, haven’t been unimaginably bad since he brought me here.

If I cannot find a way out, the rest of my days will be much worse.

“You know I don’t like it when we fight.” His voice grows chill, all coaxing tones evaporating like mist.

_You’re dying, Rey. You need to drink._

I finally convince myself to yield to the quenching promise trickling away and soaking my cheek and the pillow beneath me. I turn and gulp the tainted water as it pours against my mouth and trickles in cold rivulets down my chin, trailing over my neck and into my hair or alternately down my chest.

_Drink it._

I swallow mechanically as my eyes adjust to the softly-spilling light.

I look at him.

He smiles, so handsome my toes want to curl.

He’s tall, tall and dark, with thickly-waving, raven hair trimmed neatly and worn just long enough to cover his protuberant ears. His eyes are butterscotch, spiked with shades of amber and gold, framed by elegantly-winged brows and lovely black lashes. He occasionally wears glasses and they shouldn’t add to his allure, but they do. He wears them now, and they glint softly in the hazy light, riding low on his long nose.

His nose is rather large, but it suits him. A smaller nose would be strange in combination with his unusual facial traits – face too long, cheekbones too high, jaw too narrow, forehead too prominent, crooked teeth, and pale skin dotted with moles – slightly asymmetrical features, which on their own might not be terribly appealing, but collectively are somehow very attractive.

His mouth is the only truly perfect feature he owns. That mouth with its full, red lips, lushly endowed with a pillow-soft plushness, would make any vain teenager envious.

Yes. Pretty hair and eyes, and luscious, luxurious lips. And the rest of him a hodge-podge of extremes that work quite well together.

And he’s big. Well over six feet tall and burly, not stocky. No, he's _built_ with heavy slabs of muscle carved like marble, pecs and abs and thighs muscled in the way of a predator. He’s not some overly-inflated, puffed-up gym-rat. He is _catlike_ , all sleekly-rippling strength under tautly pulled skin, dangerous at rest, unstoppable in motion, every movement a graceful symphony on his large-boned, handsomely built frame.

A beautiful animal. And a deadly one.

He moves like water. Smooth and powerful and devastating in a storm.

_Water. Drink._

His large hands cup my skull and push my mouth firmly against the bottle at my lips.

I finish gulping the water, having succumbed to the inevitable, and I glare at him when I finish. I want more, but my belly is full and aches from what I’ve already had.

My head falls back onto the pillow, wet from my brief and pathetic resistance just now, and I feel a familiar wave of dull giddiness.

“There now, baby girl. Doesn’t that feel better?” His throaty growl brushes over me, warm and velvet-smooth, satisfied now that I’ve done his bidding, however reluctantly.

A familiar buzz from whatever he’s added to my water rapidly infuses me with false bravery. He stares down his long, beautiful nose and I feel reckless.

I want these handcuffs off. I want to go home.

The edges of the room blur and I ask, “Won’t you please let me out of here? I promise I’ll be good. I promise.”

His face darkens into a scowl and I belatedly realize my mistake.

_Shit. Shit, fuck –_

His hand flies out of nowhere and connects with my mouth hard enough to rattle my teeth together. The cut on my lip splits open again and I yelp at the sharp pain. The copper tang of blood hits my tongue and I try not to gag.

If I throw up my water, he will give me more drugs and then I might die.

I blink up at him in fear, frozen.

“Ungrateful fucking _bitch._ ” He bares his teeth, and his voice crackles with rage. He runs a hand through his hair, visibly agitated. “You think I _enjoy_ this? Keeping you like this? Like a goddamned animal? _Fuck_. If I thought I could trust you not to run off, you think I wouldn’t let you go?” He raises his hand again and I hate myself for cringing away.

I still can’t cry, despite the water he just gave me. But I _want_ to. I really do.

My cowering seems to pacify him, and I’m not sure if I should try to apologize just to be sure. I’m feeling more of a buzz now, as the drugs he fed me begin to take over.

“Maybe I need to show you again? How much you mean to me?” he whispers softly. “Is that what you want? It is, isn’t it?”

_No. No._

“Is that why you provoke me like this? Because you _like_ it?”

I shake my head, too afraid of another slap to speak the words out loud, too afraid to change the steps to this part of our dance.

Besides, it’s pointless.

My mouth stings and my head spins. He unbuckles his belt and I turn my head away, wondering if I am ever going to feel the sun on my face again.

“Ah, you do. You like it…” he mutters. He hovers an inch away before dragging his tongue over the re-opened cut on my lip.

He kisses me softly. Slowly. Like he’s sorry. It’s just another part of the dance we do. Our ritual.

My hell.

His illusion.

As if we are in some kind of real goddamn relationship, not this nightmare replica of one.

“Just because we had a fight doesn’t mean we can’t make up. Right, honey?”

After fourteen more marks scratched into the headboard, I’ve grown terribly weak. I need his help to use the bathroom, to sit up. I can barely move on my own. Apathy drips incessantly into my thoughts to erode my grip on hope.

All I can think about, all I care about is water. When it is coming, and how can I get more?

Twice a day he uncuffs me, and twice a day he patiently guides me to the bathroom. We’ve become more marionette and puppet master than dance partners at this point.

My pee smells strongly of ammonia now, toxic and undiluted and it is dark yellow from dehydration. I wonder vaguely if my kidneys might fail soon. I wonder how much longer I might last like this.

Once a day he helps me shower, seating me on a plastic bench – the kind used by elderly or disabled people who can’t stand up on their own for long – and he scrubs me down like a dog, while I furtively lap at the spray like a beast. I try to get as much moisture as I can without being too obvious about it.

He doesn’t like it when I do that. I try not to let him catch me at it.

But, I’m _so_ thirsty. I am preoccupied with water, obsessing over it as I’ve never fixated on anything before.

He has not hit me again. I haven’t asked him to let me go since Day Nine.

I think it would be pointless to ask, anyhow.

I’m weak and thirsty, and I’m not going anywhere.

Today, he seems to realize this, and after scrubbing me down, he carries me to the barren living room. He tucks me into his plaid sofa with a comforter and uses a remote control to turn on the television.

“You’ve been _so_ _good_ , baby girl. You can watch some TV as a treat, okay? Doesn’t that sound nice?”

I stare unseeing at whatever is on the screen. It could be a horror flick or Maury Povich for all I know or care. I cannot move, my muscles cramp and burn from the exertion of showering and being carried and sitting upright.

He seems satisfied I’m not going to jump up and run and leaves me huddled on the couch. I hear rustling from the front bedroom where he keeps me. After a few minutes, he reappears with a bundle of dirty sheets in his arms. He watches me for a few seconds, but I haven’t moved, so he leaves again.

_Those sheets definitely need a wash._

I cannot muster more than mild disgust. I consider trying to run for it, but I'd never manage the complicated series of locks on the front door before he catches me. Besides, my legs are so weak I cannot stand. Not without his help.

I am weak from the drugs, and I don’t think I should have much more of whatever he’s been giving me.

Or I really am going to die.

Although maybe that won't be so bad. Maybe if I have a little more potion, I will finally escape this bad dream forever.

Except he didn’t give me any today.

Today he says I’ve been _good_. I wonder what he means when he says that. Maybe I will get some water soon. I’m so thirsty, maybe I should ask for water.

He might hit me if I ask.

I think if he hits me again, it might cause some permanent damage. Maybe even kill me.

I wonder if I should tempt him into it. Killing me.

But I don’t really want to die today. Not really. Not yet.

I’ve been chained to a bed for weeks. This brief change of scenery, of position, makes my head whirl. The light, even dim as it is, hurts my eyes, but I do not close them. I sink into the couch cushions and force myself to stay awake, to observe my surroundings. This is an opportunity.

I should try to find some hope. I can’t.

It’s dark outside, after sunset, I think I can tell through the tightly closed blinds. I do my best to ignore him moving through the house. I pretend maybe I’m back home, watching my own TV after a long day of work at the shop.

I try to imagine I’m burrowed under my favorite blanket, a cup of tea within arm’s reach, or even better, a glass of ice-cold water, and I can have as much as I want. I try to imagine I am strong enough to stand and walk around without cruel fingers digging into my arms or ribs or hips as he _helps_ me. I try to remember what the touch of sunshine feels like, what fresh air smells like.

I dream of the taste of water.

I doze, drifting in and out of dreamy wakefulness to the vapid low tones on the television and muted clattering from the kitchen. He’s cooking dinner by the sound of it.

I’m not hungry.

I haven’t been hungry since he took me, although I know he’s fed me enough to keep me alive.

Mostly I’m just thirsty.

I want water so fucking bad.

_Don’t think about it. You’ll go crazy if you keep this up. Think about something else._

I recall the first time I saw him, and, for the millionth time, I rehash my mistakes, the obvious cues I ignored, the indicators I can only see now with perfect hindsight.

The bell over the shop door tinkled softly, alerting me to a customer. As usual, I wore sweatpants and a t-shirt and was hanging out in the back of the converted shop I used to share with Rose Tico.

Before she eloped, Rose was my best friend, or so I thought. But she took off almost a year ago, and I’d been managing the business alone since she left.

Before she ran off with a boyfriend I never knew existed, Rose made a better fortune teller than I ever did. She had a good intuition about people, she used to joke. But she left, and so I became Madam Sunshine, heiress to ancient wisdom and dubious supernatural abilities.

My sign said “potions sold” but that was mostly because it rhymed with “dreams foretold” and had a nice ring to it. Occasionally a curious teenager would come in thinking “potions sold” meant I sold drugs, and I would set the record straight in no uncertain terms.

I wondered who was here now and if they really wanted a fortune.

I threw on my turban and fringed shawl. Stereotypical, I know, so sue me. But the costume helped me look the part and it was easy enough to revert back into a shop owner after fortune-telling.

He came into the shop with slow purpose, closing the door conscientiously behind him, and my nerve endings sort of…tingled with adrenaline.

I assumed he was there for a palm reading or horoscope or maybe he just wanted someone to tell him he would get everything he’d ever dreamed of. Because that was what I did: Sold dreams and peddled hope to the sad and lonely and desperate.

Anyhow, the first thing I noticed about him was the cop uniform, complete with badge and gun.

He crammed himself into my veil-swathed booth and flashed me a wolfish smile, folding his impossibly long-legged, broad-shouldered frame into the guest chair across from me.

Every instinct I owned told me to run, right then and there. I chalked it up to his overpowering size and my natural distrust for law enforcement of any kind, especially considering my business wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up.

But I hid my nervousness well and simply asked how I could help him.

He very politely asked for a fortune as advertised on the sandwich board outside. His smile broadened, and my heart skipped a beat, my initial trepidation falling away.

Because, shit, he was sexy.

I took a deep breath, pretending to gather the forces of destiny around me, when really I was trying to collect my flustered thoughts into a semblance of order.

He waited patiently until I deemed an appropriate amount of time had passed. I hunched over my plywood table covered in a paisley swath of fabric scavenged from an estate sale. The fabric was hideous, but in the ethereal, veil-draped concave I’d created, it really worked, really looked authentic, you know?

After a quick once-over, I noticed he did not wear a wedding ring, nor was there a sign of one being recently worn on his ring finger. A tiny white streak at the corner of his mouth told me he had brushed his teeth that morning but missed rinsing all the toothpaste away.

 _He’s single. Lives alone._ An educated guess.

Since he had asked for a fortune, I peered into my “crystal ball” – a glittery garden globe I’d picked up from Home Depot a while back – and made up some shit about him finding true happiness, the love of his dreams, yada-yada-yada.

“When?” he murmured.

Uh. I had no fucking idea when. I was thrown off. People didn’t usually interrupt me.

“Soon,” I assured him with an encouraging nod.

He watched me so closely the whole time, I grew increasingly uncomfortable as I went on. I felt him… _collecting_ my every move, I don’t know how else to describe it. He watched me like he was trying to memorize a textbook. Intently and with full concentration.

I felt like a mouse being sighted by a hawk.

Eventually, my sub-par fortune ebbed, falling away from my lips as everything became a standstill, a standoff, almost. I couldn’t read a damn thing from him. I sincerely hoped he liked his fortune, but for all I knew he was here as a joke.

I didn’t get the impression he was taking any of this too seriously.

No. Rather…he was taking an interest in me, the girl under the turban. He watched me like he was trying to strip it away. And the shawl. It took me a minute to figure it out.

He was undressing me with his eyes.

I felt a flutter of something in my belly. _Oh!_

I tried to stop my cheeks from turning pink at the unwelcome discovery, but it was futile. Keeping a blush off my face has always been impossible and I hate that about myself.

I trailed off, and we sat in silence for a few heartbeats. Finally, he murmured, “Thank you, Madam…?” A tiny hint of sarcasm touched his voice.

“Madam Sunshine,” I blurted stupidly, still basking in the flattering glow of his obvious interest and thoroughly disarming gaze.

His smile broke the tension like a pebble gently breaking the surface of still water. Ripples of anticipation fluttered into me as I realized I was attracted to this customer. Sexually.

He licked his lips and blinked slowly at me, giving me time to get over it. A hint of his cologne or aftershave or deodorant or whatever hit my nose and I blushed harder. He smelled incredible and I kind of wanted to lick my thumb and stroke it over the dried bit of toothpaste at the corner of his fabulous mouth and press my nose into his neck and breathe in his scent…

He slid twenty bucks across the hideous paisley fabric of my cheap table with a soft “Thank you for such a…magnificent demonstration of foresight, sunshine.”

“Um. You’re welcome, Officer –” I glanced at his badge “– Solo.”

He chuckled and my pussy clenched hard in response.

“Call me Ben,” he murmured. He was still staring at my mouth, and I was going to go up in flames. I didn’t need supernatural abilities to recognize _that_ look. He felt it, too, I was sure. Hot desire writhed through me and throbbed insistently between my legs.

I was rendered nearly speechless as his gaze lingered for just a second longer than it should have. Definitely inappropriate. And then he stood abruptly and exited my ridiculous booth and I felt…kind of empty and sad.

I didn’t know why he left so quickly or if I’d ever see him again, and it put me off for the rest of the day. I closed up shop early and went home in a bit of a mood.

I don’t know if twenty minutes or two hours have passed when the warm weight of him settles next to me on the couch, waking me from my doze.

He’s holding a plate of food and watching me like a raptor. His own plate sits on the coffee table next to a large glass of ice water. The glass drips with condensation, and I have never lusted for anything in my life as I do for that water.

“You hungry?” he asks. I’m not, but he holds a bite of mashed potato on a fork and I open my mouth in robotic obedience, learned the hardest of ways. Fighting him at feeding time ends _very_ badly, every time I’ve tried it. I don’t have it in me to fight right now. Plus, if I’m good he might give me some of that water.

He blows on the bite first, cooling away a faint wisp of steam, then carefully feeds me one forkful after another.

It’s good. _Really_ good. I open my mouth automatically for more and he feeds me, the light in his eyes changing from wary to satisfied as the food disappears from my plate.

He likes this. Me needing him.

The food makes me tired, but my mind grows more alert by the minute. He hasn’t drugged me yet, and I’m so very thirsty…

“Please,” I murmur, finally unable to help myself. “Can I please have some water? Please?”

He pauses, fork halfway to my mouth. I have introduced something new to the dance, but so has he. If he kills me over it, at least I can say I died trying.

“Sure, baby girl. Since you asked so good…”

I am near-trembling with relief as I realize he is _not_ going to kill me, and I’ve never _asked_ him for water before. I’ve only ever begged for him to let me go.

He holds his glass to my lips and I know immediately it is not drugged.

I slurp the water, cold and fresh, and it’s so _lovely_ , so soothing, such a goddamn fucking miracle. I gulp down as much as he will let me have. I can feel it sliding along my tongue, a cool trickle against my throat and down my esophagus. I can feel it hitting my stomach, mixing with the food he’s given me, churning happily into my cells, absorbing into my body.

I drain the whole glass, eagerly sucking at the droplets as the ice cubes bump against my lips. It’s so fucking good, so delicious and wet and cold, and I want to cry when he finally pulls the nearly-empty glass away, ice-cubes clinking gently to remind me there’s more _water_ in that ice, or will be when it melts, and maybe I can have it in a little while.

I keep my eyes lowered, trying to stay calm. My mind hurtles into overdrive, though. My heart pounds a crazy, desperate cadence.

I feel like I’ve found a missing puzzle piece and locked it in place, the piece that can show me the whole picture, now.

And now I know what to do. I just need to think for a minute.

_I can ask for water, and if I’m good he will give me some. I cannot mention wanting to leave. I cannot mention being let go. Ever._

Every time I do it, he grows wild with rage and it always ends in me getting slapped and worse.

I realize he’s watching me, and so I softly tell him, “Thank you.”

He tells me I am welcome and feeds me the rest of my dinner. I’m exhausted by now, and I lean into the couch, watching idly as he picks up his own plate.

When he’s finished eating, he carries me back to my room and cuffs me to the headboard. I’m full, and I’ve had water. And no drugs. I’m more alert than I’ve been for a while. I haven’t worn clothes for weeks, and I feel chilly. He neatly folds the blanket that covered me and sets it at the foot of the bed.

As he does every night, he strips out of his clothes and climbs on top of me.

I lie still and let him do whatever he wants, too happy to have finally had enough water to make an ordeal over what always follows dinner.

* * *


	2. Delusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Polly, Nirvana](https://open.spotify.com/track/4VYbDiokszg5vrXmHxoMtC?si=SGm1iNncS-6pjKj0-31I4g)

# Chapter Two – Delusion

de·lu·sion | \ di-ˈlü-zhən, dē-\

**Definition of _delusion_**

**1a:** something that is falsely or delusively believed or propagated under the _delusion_ that they will finish on schedule; _delusions_ of grandeur

  1. _psychology_ : a persistent false psychotic belief regarding the self or persons or objects outside the self that is maintained despite indisputable evidence to the contrary; the _delusion_ that someone was out to hurt him; _also_ : the abnormal state marked by such beliefs



**2:** the act of tricking or deceiving someone: the state of being deluded… _accused the Bohemian of having practised the most abominable arts of delusion among the younger brethren.— Walter Scott_

* * *

The day he took me I was in the backroom, fucking around on the old laptop set up on a beat-up metal desk and half-listening to the radio.

When the jingle of the bell on the door alerted me to a customer, I threw on the turban and fringed shawl and hurried into the shop.

I entered the fortune-teller’s booth, eager to make some money. It had been a few days since anyone stopped by.

God, I had been so fucking oblivious. If had known then what I know now, I would have run out the back door as fast and hard as my feet could carry me.

But I didn’t know a goddamned thing, so I ducked under the purple veil draped across the entryway to welcome my newest customer.

At the time, I didn’t realize it would be the last time I would ever do that.

When I saw who it was, my breath caught in a quick rush of air I was unable to hide.

_He_ stood there, Officer Solo from last week, and he looked handsome as ever, wearing glasses this time. His uniform stretched tautly across his chest, his badge glinting with quiet authority in the soft lighting of my booth. Even the sight of his nightstick and sidearm hanging from the duty belt at his hips did not diminish my glad excitement, the warm writhing anticipation I felt.

His appearance did not alarm me as it initially did last time I saw him.

He smiled, and I grinned naïvely in return. He was _back_ , and I knew it was because of me. He was interested, and I was thrilled. Because he was definitely interesting to me, too.

I discarded my turban on the table next to my garden globe. For some reason, I wanted him to see my hair, pulled into three cute buns in a row down the back of my head. Kind of like a mohawk, but more, I don’t know, _feminine_. I wanted him to see me as a woman.

“Back for another fortune, officer?” I asked, tongue-in-cheek. We both knew damn well the last fortune I told him was total bullshit.

“Not exactly,” he replied, giving me a scrupulous once-over from behind his glasses. His dark eyes crawled over me, noting my obvious and careless attempt to cover my jeans and t-shirt with the worse-for-wear shawl, a garment I hoped looked like it might belong to a woman of mystic talents.

I giggled awkwardly under his thorough inspection. I’d just turned twenty and was a virgin, to boot. And he was giving me a man’s perusal.

Boys my own age tend to have this overly-contrived affectation when they try to convey an appreciative gaze. It will always feel too forced, not natural as his was. And Solo had the smolder perfected to an art form.

His mouth quirked into a slight leer, confirming my initial instinct he was not here for my unimpressive services as Madam Sunshine. He licked his lips and I had to force the low flutters in my belly to calm before I spoke again. Those lips. Fuck, that mouth was hot.

I felt my cheeks turn warm at the thought, unwelcome only because I was going to embarrass myself and reveal too much interest too soon. I wanted to remain a little mysterious. Maybe a little elusive. He was older than me by close to a decade, if I had to guess. He was not a boy, not a person who would be interested in a juvenile fling. With him, it would be an intense…affair.

“Can I help you?” I breathed, my mind far away, fixed on vague musings of a burgeoning sexual awareness. He would know what to do in bed. He would know how to have sex. I could tell.

“Rey Johnson?” he asked, pulling my thoughts back to the moment. He knew my name, which was kind of weird. It wouldn’t be all that hard for him to figure it out, I reasoned, not with his police resources, but his use of it now sent a quiver of unease into my wildly fluttering belly.

“Yes?” I replied cautiously.

He crooked his finger at me and like a fool, I obeyed. I moved closer, not once considering the lasting consequences of trusting him. Without even thinking to try for the foreknowledge I had so colorfully bragged of owning.

I stood before him, unquestioning, wrapped in my stupid shawl. He brushed it almost reverently from my shoulders, sending it to fall, already forgotten, to the old rug covering the dirty tile floor.

Oh, shit, my heart was pounding so hard. Was he going to kiss me? He was looking at me like he wanted to. Like he wanted to eat me alive.

I swallowed, unable to tear my gaze from his.

It happened so fast, I didn’t fight. I didn’t even think to.

He spun me quickly, efficiently taking over my body with a few carefully placed moves they must teach all cops, wrenching my arms behind my back and cuffing my wrists with practiced ease.

“You are under arrest.” He spoke casually. As if I should have known what was coming.

_Arrest?_ _Wait. What?_

_What did I do?_

“What?”

He exhaled. “You heard me. I’m arresting you.” The words made no sense slithering into my ear, and he sounded disturbingly excited.

Oh. Maybe this was some kind of a joke?

My hands were cuffed behind me, and he hovered behind. I could feel the heat of him, the light press of his hips against my butt.

_Oh._

Okay. Maybe this was his idea of being kinky? I quickly revised my feelings of attraction to him. He was still sexy as hell. But this was not okay.

“Ha, ha,” I griped sarcastically. “Funny. Let me go.”

He used my arms to steer me to the door. “Nope,” was all he said before very efficiently guiding me through the front door of my shop to the car parked outside. 

His legs are miles long and he moved briskly. I shuffled along in front of him as best I could, off-kilter, out-of-sorts, trying not to stumble over my own feet.

This was happening too fast. _Wait_.

I was growing angry. I had rights. This was definitely _not_ okay.

“What are you arresting me for?” My voice cracked with panic as he opened the back door to his car. I planted my feet. I’d never been in the back of a cop car before, and I knew if I ended up in this one, bad things were going to happen.

Real fear started bubbling up around the edges of my mind.

Something was fucking _wrong_.

_Stop. Stop!_

Like a cornered animal, I thrashed in panic, looking for aid. Nobody was around, but I opened my mouth to scream for help.

“Fight me now or make a sound, and I’ll break your fucking arm,” he muttered coolly, wrenching my arm in a way I knew instinctively would indeed cause it to break.

I felt hot breath on the side of my neck, then a brutally whispered promise hissed into my ear. “You can resist all you want later. I expect you’ll be quite a little fighter.”

_This can’t be real_ , I thought, as he shoved my head down and roughly forced me onto the back seat.

_This can’t really be happening._

But I was wrong. It was real. All of it.

Once I figure out not to fight him, ever, things get easier. Once I realize I shouldn’t ask to leave, to be let go, he becomes almost…solicitous.

I try to build my strength incrementally. He’s far too smart and would notice immediately if I were to change my behavior too quickly. I tried in the very beginning and it pissed him off beyond belief.

But. He hasn’t drugged my water for days now, and I can feel my mind rousing. I can feel hope awakening in me again, fragile, yes, but there. Like a flower before it blooms.

I’m terrified he’ll figure it out and take it away again, that intoxicating sense of optimism, of possibility.

I’m still horribly weak, but I try to let him believe I am even weaker. With the drugs out of my system, I can walk on my own, sit up on my own, but I allow him to lift me and carry me and move me between the bedroom and living room.

It’s working, and I grow more confident with each passing day. He's trusting me. He tells me I'm a good girl. 

I can be good. I just have to do whatever he says. I just have to be patient. I'm good at waiting.

After another week of compliance, I am granted the best reward yet.

I rarely talk, still afraid of drawing a random slap or punch, because he grows suspicious whenever I speak without prompting. So, when I casually mention I am cold, keeping my voice as neutral as possible, he narrows his eyes, and I can feel him calculating.

But he simply stands and walks into his bedroom, the one I’ve never seen. I assume it is where he keeps his clothes and uniform and things, where he sleeps when he isn’t dozing after he’s just finished raping me.

After a few minutes, he returns with a button-down pajama top. It will be enormous on me, but it looks warm, flannel and long-sleeved.

He pulls my arms into the sleeves and buttons it around me with a solemn stare, rolling the cuffs until my hands stick out, then tucking me back against him.

Clothes. Oh, God, when was the last time I wore clothes?

“Thank you,” I whisper, and think I can feel his distrust, his disbelief in my sincerity. I could say something sarcastic, I think, irritated. A tinge of the old me pushes to the surface and I tamp it down.

There is no fucking way I am going to risk going without water again just to make some lippy remark about finally getting something to wear.

After dinner that night, he carries me to my bedroom at the front of the house and cuffs me to the headboard as always, cold metal biting ruthlessly into my wrists.

But under the warm flannel pajama top, I feel a little more human. A little less animal.

I can’t stop thinking about it, the way the fabric covers me, the sensation of warmth, the illusion of protection, of shelter.

I can’t help a tear of gratitude from sliding down my cheek. I still hate him, don’t get me wrong. But to wear _clothes_ again is…

He leaves his shirt on me that night, even as he unbuckles his belt and climbs on top of me with a soft groan, pushing his fingers into my hair and kissing me as if we are in love.

As if he is making love to me.

I try very hard to lie still and be good, so he won’t take away my new clothes.

I have not spoken much since he gave me the shirt, other than to politely ask for water every morning at breakfast and every evening at dinner, always demurely thanking him after.

So, when he informs me I will no longer be handcuffed through the night, my heart skips a few beats and I am so shaken, so disoriented, I almost willingly accept the ankle bracelet.

We are watching TV after dinner, him relaxing on the sofa, arms spanning the width of it, long legs outstretched before him, feet propped on the coffee table, while I lie on my side with my head resting in his lap.

We are watching reruns of _Full House_ , which seems to thoroughly amuse him.

He occasionally glances down whenever the canned laughter echoes loudly from the television, and I manage to throw him a sickly smile every now and then, the best I can do under the circumstances.

I’m hoping if I am sufficiently entertained by the corny jokes it will prolong the moment when he will inevitably put me to bed for the night. I’ve been trying to time my laughter just right.

Nothing about any of this is remotely amusing, but I’ve become decent at pretending.

“I’m not going to handcuff you anymore,” he murmurs conversationally during a commercial break.

My eyes flash to his in confusion.

This is a new addition to our dance, and I’ve grown accustomed to those handcuffs. Why is he changing our routine?

For some reason, I’m terrified. Does this mean he is going to kill me now?

He reaches to the table next to the sofa, out of my line of sight. I tense, not sure what he’s reaching for, but relax slightly when he presents an object that looks like a large plastic ring.

He lifts my head and jostles off the couch to kneel in a horrible parody of proposing. He holds up the ring, so I can look at it before he slides it around my ankle.

“This is an ankle-bracelet, usually reserved to monitor criminals under house arrest,” he informs me casually, still kneeling in front of me after fixing the bracelet in place with a special key. “I got it on e-Bay.”

I just sit there while he explains if I try to leave, he will know immediately. He goes on and on about geofencing and boundaries and GPS and technology stuff I don’t understand. All I know is the thing can supposedly track my movements down to a one-foot radius.

The weight of it feels strange.

“I…don’t understand,” I finally whisper lamely, heart thundering under my ribs in renewed fear.

His eyes blaze into mine, accusing.

“I don’t _want_ to have to treat you like a goddamned animal, Rey,” he tells me. He sounds so sincere, I can almost believe he means it. “I hope you won’t disappoint me and prove me wrong about my decision to give you more freedom…”

I have a strong suspicion this is a test. I have no doubt in my mind if I try to mess with the ankle bracelet and escape, if he ever does catch me…the punishment will be…beyond a nightmare.

_He’s not planning on killing me yet, though._

_Good._

Because I am still going to try like hell to get the fuck out of here. The very first chance I get.

I resume my position, my head resting on his lap again as the commercial break ends. We watch for a few minutes and then he speaks again, and I realize he’s been leading up to something.

“Maybe we should have a couple of kids…what do you think?” The remark is casually made, but I can hear something deeper in his voice, a weird, serious eagerness.

He means it. My insides curdle at the thought.

I thank my lucky stars I used to have the most awful periods and got my Depo shot renewed right before he took me. My mind begins to frantically calculate how much longer I have. It wears off in less than twelve weeks.

I need to get away before then, I realize in a panic.

_I have to get out of here. I have to fucking escape._

I lie still and try not to freak out at the idea of having a baby with this monster. If I panic, he will sense it.

And he won’t like it. Not at all.

Plus, I am getting him to trust me. I need to keep being patient. For a little while longer.

Besides, things aren't so bad now.

I don’t fight anymore. Fighting him is futile and it hurts.

He’d been right, the day he arrested me. I _was_ quite the fighter. I fought so hard. For hours. Days.

It hadn’t been enough. Fighting was so fucking pointless.

He shoved me into the back of his car without any discernible effort on his part. It was far too easy, and I just let him.

I should have fought harder and tried to scream for help. I should have taken the broken arm and escaped and counted myself lucky.

But before I could rethink my cooperative behavior, he'd already started the engine and shifted the car into gear and pulled away from where he'd parked in front of my shop.

From the back seat, I did beg him to stop, to pull over and let me go, until his dark, pretty eyes drilled into mine in the rearview mirror. Even in the mirror, I could feel the weight of his wrath, his desire to choke me into silence.

I stopped begging and tried to figure a way out. I thought about trying to kick out the window since there were no door handles in the back, but then what? It wasn't like I could do much with my hands cuffed.

He drove me to a nice suburb on the outskirts of town. I’ve never been outside the city before, but I figured I would have recognized the stench of suburbia anywhere.

We pulled into a small detached garage with charming little exes on the door – one of those details that run rampant in these refined “family” neighborhoods. Next to the garage was a cute little house, a Craftsman-style, I think they are called, painted blue with white trim and surrounded by well-manicured shrubs.

The whole neighborhood looked like something out of a sitcom, you know?

You know the kind. Where the mothers stay home all day to keep house and wait on their husbands and children hand and foot. Where the husbands work their nine-to-five day jobs, before coming home expecting to be waited on by the woman they promised eternal devotion to. While the woman in question is probably fucking the mailman and the meter reader and the teenage neighbor kid on her son’s baseball team. And the kids are just as fucked up as the parents, at least from what I hear. Heard.

Rose used to talk about it. Suburbia.

He got out and pulled the garage door shut, and I belatedly started calling for help. He hustled around and yanked me out of the car, throwing me against it hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

“You can scream all you want. Nobody will hear. My neighbors on either side are old as dirt and deaf as fence posts and always have their televisions turned up _so_ loud…”

He chuckled, and it sent shivers spilling through me.

He hauled on my arm until I felt a painful tug at my shoulder as the tendons strained at the unnatural angle.

“Go ahead. _Scream_ ,” he prompted. “You’ll just wear yourself out, honey. All the better for me.”

_He wants me to scream_ , I thought. _So, I won’t. Fuck this asshole._

His handcuffs dug into my wrists, and his hands shackled my upper arms as he shuffled me out onto a little brick walkway next to the garage along the back of the house.

“Why are you doing this?” I begged desperately, trying to reason with a madman.

“I knew it was you. When you told me my fortune? I knew it was you.”

He sounded so sure. So…reasonable.

“I just made that shit up –”

He shook his head, gripping me harder. “You said.”

“You’re crazy!” I spat, as he opened the back door and shoved me into a quaint little kitchen.

He grunted and smiled fondly at me like I was the crazy one. I glanced around, searching for an escape that wasn’t through him. I kicked over a chair next to the kitchen table in a futile attempt to block his advance as I backed away.

That only seemed to spur him on, and pure darkness slid over his face as I panted, “Fuck you!”

He lunged and grabbed a handful of my hair, propelling me through the house to a bedroom at the front. The windows had boards nailed over them, but the light was switched on, as if waiting for us. The room was empty but for a bed and a cheap nightstand.

I turned and tried one last time to muscle my way around him. I did _not_ want to go in there. I didn’t want–

I got a heavy-handed slap for my efforts, hard enough to momentarily stun me. My jaw throbbed, and I tasted blood. My head spun wildly.

True panic set in when he flung me face-down onto the bed.

Part of me couldn’t believe it was happening, part of me could not grasp this was real. The rest submitted to visceral instinct as I kicked and screamed and thrashed against the huge hands ripping at my clothes, pulling at my hair until my scalp burned.

But the harder I fought, the rougher he became, until he straddled me and rammed my face into the mattress so I couldn’t move.

He had me pinned down, and he lay on top of me, panting a little. He was heavy, crushing the breath out of me. I could feel the hard metal of his badge digging into my shoulder blade.

I will never forget that moment.

“You’ll come around,” he said. He sounded quite confident. “You just need to get used to the idea.”

Hatred burned like acid inside me, and I lashed out. “Fuck you! You motherfucking animal piece of shit–”

One of his huge hands wrapped around my throat and squeezed so hard I choked on a horrible wave of dizziness.

“I’d prefer you awake for this. Our first time…it should be special, don’t you think?” He hissed it right into my ear and then he bit me. He bit my neck and it hurt and it was scary.

I screamed and thrashed and tried to head-butt him. He grabbed my hair again and held my head down while I tried to buck him off.

My shoulders ached from my hands being cuffed behind me, and my stomach clenched again. I was running out of steam, and I realized he was just letting me tire myself out.

Tears of helpless frustration formed behind my eyes, and my neck throbbed in agony from where he bit me. I tried to hold still and catch my breath.

“What’s wrong? Done already?” His breath fanned hot on the back of my neck. “Don’t worry, baby girl, I’ve got what you need right here.”

I felt him fumbling behind me and realized he was undoing his belt, undoing his pants. He was going to –

_No no no no._

“Please don’t! Please,” I begged. “Please don’t!”

“Shut up,” he barked. I felt him lift off me and I kicked out wildly, as hard as I could. My foot connected with his thigh, and I caught a brutal slap on my butt that stung so bad instant tears sprang into my eyes.

“Kick me again, and I’ll fucking kill you,” he said almost casually. His voice was silky steel and I knew he meant it. I heard a lethal-sounding click and felt cold metal press against my neck.

_Oh, no, that’s his gun_.

I froze, except for the deep racking breaths I was frantically pulling into my lungs. Tears poured down my face.

_I don’t want to die._

“Please don’t,” I whispered, unable to help myself, even though I was wasting my breath. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“That’s up to you, baby girl.” I could feel him groping under me, fumbling with the button and zipper of my jeans, one-handed. I think he still held the gun on me, even though I couldn’t feel it against my skin anymore.

He yanked my pants down and I cried, bucking my hips in panic. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be really happening.

Something heavy landed next to my head. _The gun._ I couldn’t reach for it, because my hands were cuffed. I didn’t know how to use it, really, but I _wanted_ it.

I felt a thick-fingered probing between my legs and tried to clamp my thighs together to push him away, but he was ruthless.

He stopped after a minute and I thought maybe he’d changed his mind, maybe he was done. I thought maybe he’d just been trying to scare me, and this wasn’t really real.

I heard heavy footsteps moving away and I scrambled off the bed, my hands still shackled behind me. Adrenaline sizzled under my skin.

_get out get out getthefuckoutofhere_

My legs shook as I shuffled around my shoes and pants, which had fallen around my ankles. I prodded the door open with my foot and limped out of the room.

_Hurry. Get out._

I almost made it down the hall, vaguely trying to head for the front door, but he was back too quickly holding a small bottle of something.

“Where the _fuck_ do you think you’re going?” he snarled.

I tried to duck around him, but he snagged a handful of hair and wrenched me around like a rag doll.

Despite his earlier warning, I tried to kick and swing and bite.

Fuck it, I decided. I’d rather die than let him do whatever he was planning.

But he just hurled me back into that horrible room with the boarded-up windows. I landed on the floor, hard, skidding into the bed and getting rug burn on my ass. My scalp smarted and tingled from him yanking on my hair.

I glared at him. He’s tall, so I had to crane my neck.

He had the deadliest look on his face, those fabulous lips of his pulled into the most threatening frown I’ve ever seen, his heavy brow drawn into a deep scowl.

Under the menace in that relentless black gaze, I was paralyzed.

Frozen like prey.

He slammed the little bottle onto the nightstand and flipped me around, so I was face-down on the floor. He bent to rip off my shoes and pants. Somehow, he managed to avoid my kicks and twisting attempts to evade him.

He flipped me over again, and I felt like a turtle on its back, only distinctly more vulnerable, as I scowled up at him. He glared back, undaunted and furious. 

“Here’s the deal, _sunshine_ …you crawl onto that bed and open wide for Daddy, or I’m going to make sure this one hurts.”

He kicked off his shoes and stripped away his belt and pants.

I swallowed, defiance sparking inside me, but I couldn’t say anything. But I just couldn’t crawl onto that bed, either.

I don’t know why I couldn’t.

But I couldn’t do it.

I _couldn’t_ , okay?

There was nothing I could fucking do.

I huddled there on the floor and looked at him and he looked at me and we just sort of _communicated_ and it was weird and scary and wrong, surreal like a bad dream that feels more real than when you’re awake.

In that flash of time, I could almost believe he was kinda sorry and I knew down to the marrow of my bones I couldn’t stop what was coming and I should just…

_Just let him._

For all I knew, maybe he _was_ kinda sorry when he grabbed me under one arm and flung me back onto the bed.

Maybe I _couldn’t_ fight when he flipped me onto my stomach and shoved my face down and growled at me to hold the fuck still, and we were both naked _down there_ , and I’ve never done this before and it hurts.

And I’m crying and he’s _damaging_ me, leaving the kind of bruises that will dwell under my skin for ages, and maybe he’s kinda sorry while he’s smearing lube on my thighs and between my legs, which, I don’t know, doesn’t do jack fuckin’ shit to ease the tearing ripping burn of thick, blunt fingers digging into me, a thousand times harder than I’ve ever done to myself, then something else is pushing in, foreign and hot and big.

I scream when I realize what he’s doing.

Of what he’s _done_.

Something inside me stings and pinches and breaks and I know it’s him, taking my virginity.

And then it’s gone.

Just like that.

It’s gone and he’s _really_ hurting me now, pushing all the way in, too far, too hard, until there’s no more room in me for this and I can feel his body quivering roughly over mine. Something is broken inside and I am going to die.

He grabs a handful of my hair and jerks my head to the side, and his hot triumphant breath in my ear sends fresh shivers down my spine. “I’m your very first, huh? I can promise I’ll be your last, too, baby girl. I can _promise_ you that.”

He sinks his teeth hard into my shoulder, breaking the skin, and my whole body clenches and tenses at the sharp, stinging pain. He groans, long and loud.

I scream. I can’t _not_ scream as he starts pounding into me. Hard.

I cry and beg for him to stop it. But he doesn’t stop for a long time. And when he does. That’s the worst part.

My voice is shredded, my throat raw from crying, so all I can manage is breathless gasping as I try to thrash away. He jerks and heaves into me and I feel a disgusting hot wetness between my legs.

He stops, and he’s sweating, and my face is soaked with tears and snot and I can smell my blood and him and _sex_ and I wish I had a sensitive stomach because I would fucking throw up all over. But I don’t throw up.

I can’t.

I just choke and gasp and try to catch my breath under the horrible heavy weight of him.

He finally grunts, low-voiced and ominous. “Oh, I am going to have so much fun with you, honey. I can already tell you’re going to last so much longer than the last one.”

And for a little while, I wish I was dead after all.

* * *


	3. Corruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Black Fur, Elder Island](https://open.spotify.com/track/3Ipgo2twyvBySMwsTzunlH?si=D0mQxhHETByn2tW7UjsGBg)

# Chapter Three – Corruption

Corruption: cor·rup·tion | \ kə-ˈrəp-shən \

**Definition of _corruption_**

**1a:** dishonest or illegal behavior especially by powerful people (such as government officials or police officers): DEPRAVITY

 **b:** inducement to wrong by improper or unlawful means (such as bribery); the _corruption_ of government officials

 **c:** a departure from the original or from what is pure or correct; the _corruption_ of a text; the _corruption_ of computer files

 **d:** DECAY, DECOMPOSITION: the _corruption_ of a carcass

* * *

Time passes so quickly, I can almost hear it trickling away, evaporating like mist as my birth control wears off and my sense of doom expands to overtake every thought in my head.

It’s constant, now.

I grow much stronger, and the more compliant I am, the gentler he becomes.

I’ve been granted two black t-shirts along with the flannel pajama top, as well as a pair of red leggings that I’m sure he had to pick up at the local Wal-Mart.

I’m still fucking terrified of him, and every once in a while, I catch him staring at me with the flat, cold-blooded gaze of a shark. Like he's waiting for me to run, so he can chase me. Like it's only a matter of time. 

I’ve stopped counting the notches on the headboard. I’ve stopped marking time.

I stopped when he told me we should try to have kids.

Because instead of counting the passing days, I am obsessed with figuring out a way to leave.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

The weather is growing cooler, and I think it might be winter soon.

My days are spent in my room and I sleep through them, usually. Dim light filters around the cracks between the boards nailed over the windows.

I have mentally cataloged everything in the room, the shape of the recessed light fixture overhead, the old-fashioned doorknob, the patterns of texture on the walls, everything.

The little bottle of lube he brought in that first night is the only thing decorating the nightstand, and I’ve memorized the exact size and shape of it, memorized all the words on it, the ingredients listed, everything. Sometimes, when I get tired of looking at it, I wonder if he is going to have to buy more soon and if he will try a different brand or get the same thing again. I wonder sometimes about whoever designed the label on the bottle. Whoever said it’s both _safe and fun._

Every day, I try to pry at the boards, but they have been screwed down so tightly, I can’t get my fingers under to loosen them.

The doorknob is another conundrum I always test, but it remains frustratingly unmovable.

I considered dismantling the headboard, but it and the nightstand have been securely bolted into place.

I am quite conscious of the way he inspects my fingernails every night, looking for signs I am trying to claw my way out of his little cage. I have to be careful.

I have to remember he can probably tell where I spend most of the time in my room, if what he told me about the ankle bracelet is true. I try not to hang out for too long around the windows or the door, just in case.

He returns home at the same time every day, and every day I wake just before the front door creaks open, listening for the thud of booted feet to travel through the house as he drops his keys on the side table and removes his duty belt and gun and badge before bringing me a large glass of water.

I don’t have to ask anymore.

He’s stopped drugging it, I’m positive. My mind remains clear.

I’m able to get up on my own and follow him to the living room where I watch TV while he cooks dinner.

He’s a good cook. Dinner is my favorite time of day.

He's much nicer after dinner, too, although his constant mention of us having kids is enough to make me squeamish. It's hard to be patient sometimes.

Despite that, I'm being good.

The ankle bracelet is no trouble, none at all compared to the handcuffs. I sleep so much better now.

When I sleep, I can almost dream of being free.

This is so much better than before, I almost _feel_ free.

If I use my imagination just a little…I _am_ free.

I wake up and the ankle bracelet he gave me reminds me I am more pet than a prisoner, now.

I lie in the dark quiet of my boarded-up room and think about what it might be like if I go outside. What the air might taste like, smell like.

My mind is going crazy with the boredom and monotony, the hyper-fixation of making sure I behave just _so_ , of being a perfect little pet, just for him.

He’s getting to trust me, I’m sure of it.

He’ll be here any minute.

I sit up and wait.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the front door creaks and his footsteps echo through the house, and I hear him in the kitchen, the whisper of a faucet running, more footsteps, and the door to my room opens.

My heart pounds with traitorous eagerness.

“ _Hey,_ baby girl.” He flips the light switch in the hallway with his elbow and I blink at the sudden brightness.

He’s holding something in the palm of one hand, a glass of water in the other.

It’s a pill.

My eyes fly up to meet his, and I feel…betrayed, somehow.

“What?” My voice cracks.

What did I do? Why is he doing this? I don’t want to be drugged again. I can’t go back to that place.

He catches my suspicion and meets my gaze unflinchingly.

“It’s just a prenatal vitamin,” he mutters. “I read about it online. It’s good for you.”

He sounds sincere and defensive, and I have to trust it is what he says because if I fight him now it will undo months of work. Months of scavenging trust and earning little privileges. Little treats.

I have to swallow it no matter what because if I don’t…

I open my mouth and he cups his palm against my face, popping the pill onto my tongue and holding the glass of water for me while I gulp down as much as I can.

I’ll never turn down a glass of water again in my life.

His thumb prods at my lips and he stares haughtily down at me. “Open up. Let me see.”

 _God, I swallowed the fucking thing,_ I think spitefully, keeping all emotion off my face.

I open my mouth and lift my tongue, showing him.

He watches me, still, looking down his long, handsome nose with a touch of scorn.

Every single hair on my body stands on end as I sense that same excitement from the day he took me. It’s rolling off him in waves, that identical exhilaration he couldn’t quite hide when he handcuffed me and told me I was under arrest.

It’s here with us in this room, right now, and dread sinks into me.

“Wanna know what else I read?” he purrs.

I _don’t_ want to know, but I don’t want to piss him off, either. The vibe he’s transmitting reminds me of mercury. Unpredictable and slippery and deadly.

I cautiously meet his slight scowl with as blank of an expression as I can manage.

He’s unbuttoning his shirt, and I am momentarily bummed he isn’t going to start dinner soon.

I’m hungry and I don't like it when he changes the routine.

He unfastens the cuffs on his shirt’s long sleeves, peeling it away after setting his glasses on the nightstand.

“I read,” he informs me, as he kicks off his shoes, “that we are going to have a higher chance of conception if you orgasm when I come in you.”

Terrible realization crawls over me.

I don’t want to do that. No fucking way.

I shake my head, but he pushes me back onto the bed.

“ _We_ are trying to get pregnant. So, I want you to try to come. For me.”

I swallow the bile rising at the back of my throat.

I can’t help it. I shake my head in defiance.

But instead of slapping me, as I suspect he might want to, he strips off his t-shirt.

He unbuckles his belt and pulls down the zipper on his pants.

He smiles, and it’s so pretty, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, the way his gorgeous, perfect mouth turns down at the corners, I almost forget he’s a monster.

But he is.

I whimper. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay. You just need a teacher,” he whispers, stroking the back of his finger down my cheek. It takes all my willpower not to flinch away.

He’s slow and gentle, as he has been since before the ankle bracelet, huge hands lighting on me, delicate and warm, stroking me for long minutes until my shallow breathing regulates, until the tension I hold in every muscle of my body lessens. Until I lie quiet and still beneath him.

He does his very best to make sure I am relaxed, touching me so careful and soft, but I can’t quite calm down after what he just told me and the way he said it. I am sure this is a trick, that any minute he’s going to rip at my hair or bite me again or force himself on me until I’m chafed and bleeding like I was when he first brought me here.

His excitement is tangible, and I’m scared.

His fingers tighten against my scalp, lightly tugging at my hair as he kisses me, slowly rolling his hips into mine. An errant memory creeps into my head.

_He would know what to do in bed. He would know how to have sex._

I thought so when he was in my shop. Back before I knew he was a monster. Before he took my virginity and murdered a piece of me I never knew existed until it was gone.

His luscious lips plunder mine and the slightest groan pushes through, vibrating into me so faintly I am momentarily unsure it actually happened. He pulls back and looks at me.

"What's wrong, honey? Don't you want to have my baby? Hmmm?" 

He slides a hand under my shirt, cupping my breast as he deepens his kiss.

I need to make him trust me.

I need to make him believe I won’t run.

And for the first time, I kiss him back.

It isn’t horrible.

He inhales sharply, drawing back to look at me. Dark suspicion clouds his eyes.

Every nerve ending in my body fires with alarm as I steel myself to lie there and meet his stare. To let him look at me. He bends forward, eyes still open, and I let mine flutter closed.

He’s either going to kiss me again or I don’t know –

His lips land on mine, more firmly this time, and his kiss is darker, laced with wary disbelief.

He doesn’t quite trust me. Yet.

I carefully cup my hand over his pec, mirroring the way he palms my nipple.

I have never voluntarily touched him before. Not since the early days when I tried to fight, when any contact was decidedly more aggressive and firmly in the realm of trying to fight him off.

He kisses me again before moving to my neck, and his breath fans over me like a warm breeze. I pretend I am dreaming, and it is easier to submit to the tickling heat of his tongue as he traces over the shell of my ear.

My other hand sneaks between us, but instead of pushing him away, I test the firm, solid muscle under my fingertips, lightly scraping his nipple with my fingernails.

He sighs softly and sucks on my neck, hot and wet over my thumping pulse. His five o’clock shadow scuffs against my sensitive skin. Low flutters quiver through my belly.

It feels good, what he’s doing.

Part of me is still panicking, but another part releases a sigh of relief. Because if I can feel something other than apathy or alarm with him, then maybe…maybe I’m not all the way broken. Maybe I’m still a little bit okay.

I’m still alive. After everything, I’m still alive.

It’s hope. I might yet find a way to get out of here.

_Keep going._

I slide my hands over the elegant dips of his collarbone and strong column of his neck to comb into his hair, close to the scalp.

His hair is feather-soft, thick and wavy, and the texture is the softest, nicest thing I’ve felt in a very long time. It’s rather shocking.

It reminds me of a time before Rose and I started fortune-telling, when the shop was still a second-hand store.

One day an old woman came in with some stuff for consignment.

She had this fur coat, a relic of her youth that would now be considered socially unacceptable to wear or own. I didn’t have the heart to tell the woman we didn’t take items like that; we couldn’t sell them because most people have a moral aversion to fur…but this coat…it was _sooo_ soft.

I don’t know what type of animal it was made of, but I’d never felt anything like it before.

I’d stroked it, wondering about the creatures that died to make such an extravagant, forbidden thing, wondering at the terror they must have felt in the final moments before succumbing to bloody death.

Were they trapped or snared or shot?

Theoretically, fur had always seemed like too much horror, too high a price to pay for someone’s frivolous, worldly indulgence. But in reality, it was so luxurious, so sensually gratifying to touch.

I had wondered at my own guilty pleasure, unable to stop stroking the fur, even though I knew it was fundamentally wrong to like it. Immoral, even.

It was the softest thing I ever touched until I push my fingers into his hair. It reminds me of that coat.

“Rey…?” He pulls up, still suspicious. He very rarely calls me by my name, and I hate the way he says it.

I cannot speak, afraid I will accidentally ignite his temper. So I lie there, returning his regard as calmly as I can. I hope my act is convincing enough.

I need him to trust me. I need him to buy the biggest lie I’ll ever sell.

I will ignore the flutters of want in my belly, insistently licking at my insides like traitorous little flames.

He stares and eventually his mouth quirks into an arrogant half-smile. "I'll make you come. Don't worry."

He traces his fingertip over my lips, light and delicate and soft as a feather. 

Finally, I ask to break the tension, “What if I can’t?”

He considers me, hawk-like for a few seconds before smirking, “We’ll see.”

And I can’t help myself from smiling back, just a bit. Because I know it’s working.

He's buying it. _Good_. 

I throw away my inhibitions and doubts and pull him close for another kiss, deciding to jump into the maelstrom, if that’s what it will take.

I hope like crazy I won’t get pregnant before I can escape. I know _this_ is the way…I need to let him…

Just let him.

His tongue prods at my mouth and strokes languorously against mine when I open and let him in. His large fingers fumble to slide under my t-shirt and he pauses his kiss to pull it over my head.

His naked chest against me is hot and smooth, and his hips resume their tempting roll against mine. The flames in my belly coalesce into something hotter, an amalgamation of forbidden pleasure and danger mixing inside me with reckless ease.

Maybe I’m broken, after all. How can I be liking this?

I push those thoughts aside and lift my hips to meet his. I can feel his arousal straining through his unbuckled pants and my thin leggings.

He grunts and licks a hot path down my neck to capture my nipple in his mouth. When he wraps his lips around me and sucks, I gasp involuntarily at the surprising decadence of it.

Shit. I need to maintain some control, but –

“You like that?” he murmurs against my skin. He does it again and a spike of something naughty, some hot illicit ecstasy, spears into me. “Don’t you?”

His harsh tone demands an answer.

“Yessss,” I breathe. I hate myself for wanting more.

He scuffs his chin against the sensitive peak and I press up to meet him with a ragged gasp. _Shit_.

He does it again and flicks his tongue against me until I whimper. Unwillingly, yes, but I cannot help myself.

I feel a strange hot wetness between my legs.

He does the same to my other breast, a smile playing around his lips. My gasp of pleasure echoes through the room and he sucks and laves at me with such intense focus he’s frowning now. But I’m not afraid.

I’m something else.

He lifts his mouth away and I whimper in disappointment. He could have kept doing what he was doing for at least another twenty minutes and I would not have minded in the least…

His hands skate along my sides to snag my leggings and drag them down, and a talon of fear tries to sink into me. But he doesn’t give it a chance to find purchase, because he’s taken my nipple captive again, opening so wide he’s going to swallow my whole breast – I’m not very big – and his mouth is so _hot_ and wet and _fuck_ –

I feel the slightest scrape of teeth and I realize my hands are still clutching at his hair, clasping in rhythm to the sucking pull of soft lips and sharp teeth.

He moans, looking up to hypnotize me with dark, knowing eyes, cheeks hollowing lewdly, and another wet throb of hunger pulses between my legs.

He grinds against me, harder now, and I can’t stop matching his pushes with a steady lift of my hips, seeking some kind of friction to match what his mouth is doing to my nipple. He pulls his head up, releasing me with a soft _pop!_ , and I whimper again.

“Slide my pants off, honey,” he orders, moving back up to kiss me again.

I run my hands down the front of him, over rippling pecs and taut abs, fascinated by the play of silky-smooth skin over hard muscle, until I reach his waist and slide his pants down. He reaches down to help, and together we get them partway down his legs. He kicks them off the rest of the way and I find myself disconcertedly eager.

He lies on top of me again, spreading my thighs with a side-to-side roll. I can feel the hot length of his erection pressing against my belly and I suck in a frightened breath.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, and I don’t believe the honeyed lie, but I will not fight him.

I glance over to the bottle of lube on the nightstand. “Not tonight,” he mutters.

I mentally brace myself for a bit of discomfort, but instead of doing the thing I expect, instead of pushing into me like he would have done _before_ , he moves down, kissing my sternum, then dipping his tongue into the indentation of my belly button. His dark eyes sear into mine from under a thick lock of hair curling over his forehead, his brow drawn into a slight scowl of concentration.

I squirm a little as he slips his mouth over my hips, one at a time, scraping his scruffy chin over the soft skin in between…and then he, then he –

He kisses me _there_ , pushing my legs open to swipe his tongue over the lips of my sex, moaning so _ardently_ , and nobody has ever, _ever_ done such a thing to me and a small scream escapes my mouth because it feels _so fucking amazing_ –

He does it again and it rips the air out of my lungs.

His hands are firm but gentle as they stroke my thighs to open wider, until I sprawl before him, boneless and exposed to his hot mouth and wicked tongue and he licks at me again and again and groans as if he likes the taste.

I try to swallow my embarrassment and remember I am _letting_ him do this so I can win his trust and –

He’s lapping and drawing at my clit with hungry growls, sliding a long finger between my legs and I grip his hair again, hoping he won’t stop…something is _happening_ and the flames in my belly grow hotter, spreading a pulsating warmth from my womb to my thighs, burning into the place where his mouth meets my body.

I should not be liking this, but _fuck_.

He’s watching me, eyes glinting with awareness. He knows what he’s doing, making me feel this way, and suddenly I don’t fucking care, I don’t care about anything but chasing that feeling, that exquisite, _filthy_ sensation building inside and I’m so _close_ … _don’t stop, don’t stop._

“Don’t stop,” I beg.

He doesn’t. He hums against me, acknowledging my plea and I can _feel_ the sound and touch and pressure _singing_ into me, a coiling, aching tension unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, and I’m sobbing and gasping now, so close.

He pushes another finger inside and curls them up into some hidden place and his mouth sucks and pulls in time to those fingers and I find it, that _thing_ I’ve been chasing and I’m grasping it and coming, _I’m coming so fucking hard, oh fuck, it feels so good…_

I gasp and shudder against his mouth and fingers and shamelessly rub my pussy against his face until those pulses of pleasure fade.

He lifts his head and I can see his lips glistening with slick wetness. Slowly, deliberately, he wipes his mouth, then rubs his wet hand over the sheets beside me.

His eyes glitter with victory and he mutters, “Well. I guess you _can_.”

My thighs are still parted obscenely and I’m staring up at him, breathing heavily.

I can see by the look on his face we’re not done, yet. He crawls up to hover over me until his broad shoulders block out the light.

“You ready, baby?” he grunts as he ruthlessly teases the head of his dick over the sensitive flesh between my legs.

He pushes in on a smooth glide, and I arch my back to meet him.

I can’t scream because he’s kissing me, sweeping his tongue into my mouth, feeding me the taste of my own cum back to me while he thrusts into me, all the way to the hilt. 

"Open your eyes and fucking look at me."

I do.

He does it again and I gasp and his eyes light up like hellfire, blazing into mine. 

He shifts my hips for a better angle and grinds his pubic bone down, grazing my clit and driving in to fill me with that same wild rhythm as before, and I’m lost, unmoored. My only anchor is him, sweat-damp and dark and hard and hot, forcing my body back into that place once again.

It’s too much, too much sensation, as I feel him butt against my cervix with the blunt head of his cock, and it doesn’t hurt, but it’s _pressure_ , a hard reminder that he’s there, in me.

“Come,” he bites out, unrelenting.

I don’t know if I can do it again. I suck in a lungful of air and try to clamp my thighs together.

He growls and pins my hands to either side of my head, glaring down at me with such devastating command, I can’t look away.

“Come,” he utters again.

He redoubles his pace until my breasts bounce and sweat beads on his forehead. “Gonna come in you, baby girl, isn't that what you want? …you know you like it…”

He grips my chin and the slightest pressure on my throat tells me not to turn away.

“You like this, getting fucked by me…” he hisses in my face as he rolls his hips hard into mine.

I grunt, trying to argue, but I can’t fight the steady drag of him in me, the wet slap of our bodies sliding together, the firm push of his cock digging in.

He bends forward and whispers more filth in my ear, until I groan and feel my body grasping at him eagerly.

I feel it again, that clutching pull to the darkness.

“…you like it, don’t you? You…filthy…slut…”

I am a filthy slut. I should not be liking this. I _shouldn’t_.

He grunts again. “ _Come!_ Come on this cock, you little fucking whore.”

He releases my face so he can rub at my clit and he’s leering at me, and it’s only a matter of time, of seconds, before I let go and succumb to the dirty-hot spasms while he fucks me with increasing enthusiasm.

I wrap my legs around his, pulling my hips against his cock as he strokes me, solid and steady.

“You love this, don’t you, whore? Show me, show me how much you love it.”

I vaguely hear the sobbing gasps torn from my throat, and somewhere at the back of mind, I know this is insane and exactly what he’s been angling for all along. If I give him what he wants –

He rears back and pumps into me, holding my legs open wide as I thrash and fall apart against him, fierce bliss pounding into me like ocean waves.

Hot pleasure rips through me so hard, I clamp down on him with everything I have, making us both groan loudly.

Triumph lights his eyes and he lets go with a shout and a heavy pulse of his hips bucking against mine.

He trembles over me, his head falling into the crook of my neck. “… _mmmnnnnhhh_ , _fuck_! Fuck _yes_ … _fuuuck_ …”

And I just lie there panting and let him, too stunned to do anything but let it happen.

After we come down, he rolls off the bed and walks out of the room. He leaves the door open, but I am not sure if I am supposed to follow or wait for him to give me permission. I decide to wait and try to collect myself.

A few minutes pass before he returns, still shirtless, but wearing a pair of sweatpants. He carries me to the living room, settles me on the couch with a blanket and the remote, and goes into the kitchen to make dinner.

After a while, he comes back with a bowl of pasta something for each of us. He passes me one before settling next to me unceremoniously and taking a large bite.

“I don’t think you’re a whore,” he finally says.

I take a bite, so I don’t have to respond.

He’s watching me from the corner of his eye. I don’t know what he wants from me, so I mumble, “Thank you.”

He nods and takes another bite.

We chew in silence and watch _Wheel of Fortune_.

The commercial break comes on and he blurts out, “I think you should move into my room. Just for sleeping.”

My heart begins to pound.

Moving into his room…that means _windows_ and more freedom than he’s ever allowed me to have.

I look at him. He’s watching me like he always does, somewhat predatorily. Like a wolf with a trapped animal at its mercy, deciding how to best tear into it, how to get to the tender parts inside with the least amount of resistance…

He’s a monster. I can’t ever, ever forget it, despite what just happened, what we just did.

I nod agreeably. “Whatever you think is best, Ben,” I murmur before taking another bite of pasta.

He really is a good cook.

I’ll miss it when I’m gone.

But I need to get the fuck out of here. I really, really do.

* * *


	4. Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Daddy's Home, Shep, The Limelites](https://open.spotify.com/track/6pLYCkA0j6dcjMSP4IrgxW?si=RtOtxtz8SUagnS41uIWD_w)

# Chapter Four – Deception

de·cep·tion | \ di-ˈsep-shən \

**Definition of _deception_**

**1a:** the act of causing someone to accept as true or valid what is false or invalid: the act of deceiving; resorting to falsehood and _deception;_ used _deception_ to leak the classified information

 **b:** the fact or condition of being deceived; the _deception_ of his audience

 **2:** something that deceives: TRICK; fooled by a scam artist's clever _deception_

* * *

I quickly find out “moving into his room” means I get to sleep there after dinner, and I can use the bathroom anytime I want when he’s home. I can move freely between the living room and the bathroom and the front bedroom with boarded-up windows.

The only exception is the kitchen. I’m not allowed in there. _Ever_.

He still feeds me a prenatal vitamin every day, and every night we have sex and he talks about it almost obsessively, me getting pregnant. He hasn’t been drugging my water.

I think he worries if I get pregnant any drugs he gives me will fuck up the baby.

Which is a whole other horrible thing to be worried about. I can't. I can't live like this and try to survive and deal with another, helpless human being, too. 

It's so hard to be good all the time. My patience is starting to wear thin.

So, the first time I get my period, I am so relieved, I have trouble hiding the relief from him. 

We are sleeping, and I am dreaming.

It’s always the same. I hear a friendly voice, and it’s Rose and we are back in the shop, in the old days.

A little old lady brings in a fur coat for consignment and Rose pulls out a bear trap from behind the counter. It’s huge and unwieldy and I tell her to be careful. Bear traps are dangerous, even though it would take three people to set this one, which is bigger than she is.

Rose hefts the bear trap onto the counter and the old lady puts her coat into the jagged teeth of it and I tell her I’m sorry, but we can’t take her coat and she watches me with this piercing gaze and says, “I see the same eyes in different people…we are all just little animals, trying to survive.”

I am heavily pregnant, and I rub my hands over my swollen belly and nod at the woman’s sage words.

Suddenly my ankle is vibrating because I am standing at home - my new home - before a door I've never seen and it leads to a downstairs basement. There is another door. And another. They are all locked. My ankle vibrates again, insistently.

Will I be trapped or snared or shot?

I am in _so_ _much_ _trouble_. My heart pounds violently. 

I reach out to try the next door, but I can’t because it’s locked, as always. And then I hear it. The wolf is snarling and growling behind me and right as it pounces on me and rips at my belly with razor-sharp teeth, I seize up. I can’t cry out or it will wake him.

 _Don't get caught._

I wake up and my belly seizes with pain and I can hear something snarling and growling and I can’t breathe.

It’s him snoring, gripping me tightly as he sleeps.

I am disoriented, wrapped in his arms, smothered between him and the mattress, as usual.

I can smell blood and everything below my waist throbs with pain. It takes me a few seconds to realize I wasn’t actually attacked by a wolf.

It’s my period.

It’s pitch dark, but I can tell I’ve bled through the sheets. My stomach cramps painfully, and it’s gross and sticky and it hurts more than it should.

But I’m not pregnant, and I’m glad.

“Ben,” I whisper. He snuffles against my hair.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he mutters quietly.

“Um…” A tear slides down my cheek as a cramp chews through my guts.

I moan a little at the pain and he loosens his hold on me to roll over and flip on the light next to the bed.

I’m wearing one of my t-shirts and nothing else. I pull back the blankets to look. Blood smears over my thighs and the bedding under me, confirming it is indeed my period.

He stares sullenly at the sheets.

And then my stomach sinks into a pool of dread.

He’s upset.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, terrified he’s going to punish me.

It’s been ages since I started sleeping in this room. He still talks about wanting kids. My birth control has long since worn off and my hormones are resetting themselves and what would he know about any of it?

His eyes flash sharply to mine, but he simply tells me to go take a shower and he will take care of the sheets.

When I get out of the shower, there’s a partially full box of tampons on the bathroom counter waiting for me, and I wonder not for the first time who the _last one_ was.

He’d only mentioned it once before, the night he took me.

He told me I was going to last _so much longer than the last one_.

I couldn’t think about it for a long time. But lately, I’ve been wondering.

When he leaves for work the next day, I go willingly into the front bedroom to wait, as I do every day. But I become a bit bolder in my explorations.

For the millionth time, I wonder just how tight a fence is on my bracelet. He said if I step out of line, the bracelet will buzz and he will know instantly, but I am sorely tempted to try to run for it. 

But he also mentioned GPS tracking, and I know if I can’t get the damn bracelet off, it will lead him right to me. He’ll just hunt me down. I don’t want to think about what happens after that.

I have thoroughly examined the ankle bracelet and there is no discernible way to get it open or disable it. Not without the special key I’ve seen him use. I am afraid to tamper with it too much, or he will know.

And there is _nothing_ useful in the areas of the house I’ve inhabited. Not even a Bic pen, not that I am any kind of MacGyver...

I know a few basic lock-picking techniques, but there’s nothing around for me to try it with. I’ve looked.

The guts of the toilet are too thick and made of plastic. Even the bar that holds the toilet paper in the bathroom is long gone, so we just set the toilet paper on the vanity next to the toilet. The mini-blinds are useless, and there is literally nothing in the living room except the TV, the remote, and the furniture. Not a picture on the wall where I might break the glass. Even the light fixtures in the ceiling are recessed.

He’s quite thorough and so far I haven’t found any weapons, not so much as a loose screw or hairpin. I could try to dismantle some of the furniture, but he’s always around, always watching. He notices everything, always scanning thoroughly before entering the room.

I try to test my limits when he briefly leaves me alone to do chores like take out the garbage or do laundry in the shed outside, behind the garage.

If I get within ten feet of the back door or within feet of the front door, my ankle bracelet vibrates a warning. I cannot see any knives or cooking utensils in the kitchen and I debate running in to grab something to attack him with. But I think he keeps everything locked away.

And even if I did manage to find a weapon and take him by surprise, I know better than to bring a knife to a gunfight when he already has a gun. He’s pulled it on me before. Besides, I’m too scared to try to fight him. I know deep down if I ever have to go up against him physically, I’ll lose.

Still, I hover at the edges of my invisible fence and look for ways I might leave. My bracelet vibrates every now and then, and I always jump and hustle back to safety, too terrified to push my luck.

He’s getting much more comfortable with leaving me out of his sight, at least when he’s home. But I am sure if I ever step fully out of bounds, the bracelet will send a signal or a message of some kind alerting him what I’ve done.

My birth control has definitely worn off by now, and after my period ended we are back to having sex every night…and now that I’ve moved into his room...well. Let's just say we haven't had to use the lube for a long time. 

Ever since I moved into his room, he’s grown almost…sweet. It’s easier to pretend we are in love. It’s easier to exist when I am not living under the constant fear he’s going to hurt me.

Now when we watch TV, he holds me gently and pets my hair and tells me how good things are, how he knew I would come around, how happy he is.

How wonderful things will be once we have a family.

I need to find a way out. It's all I can think about.

The first time I take a chance to really test my limits, I feel like I already have a solid plan figured out.

And now I know just how much time I have to escape if I ever get another opportunity.

It isn’t much time at all.

I’ve been dwelling on it for weeks, how tight my boundaries are, while going farther than I’ve ever gone while he’s home and I’m relatively free to move around. The bracelet doesn’t buzz when I am anywhere in the bedrooms or bathroom.

It buzzes when I get within feet of the front door or anywhere near the living room windows. I try to imagine scenarios where I can work through the many deadbolts and chains and locks on the front door before he can get me, but even if I succeed, then where would I go?

I have no shoes, no coat, and nowhere to hide, even if I do make it out the door.

I need _tools_ , something I can use to get the bracelet off my ankle or disable it, at least. Which means going out the back door through the kitchen and into the garage for a crowbar or screwdriver or hammer is going to be something of a better plan.

I think about it obsessively, almost as much as I used to think about water.

Once, when he is in the bathroom, I try creeping toward the back door on the far side of the kitchen. When my ankle bracelet buzzes three times in a row, short and threatening, I watch it for a minute, both fascinated and paralyzed with fear.

_Hurry. Hurry hurry. He’s coming, he’ll be out any second._

I look around the kitchen and there is nothing in sight, not a pot or a pan or a knife, nothing. I count how many floor tiles I crossed before the bracelet buzzed.

Five. Five tiles and it buzzed three times.

I quickly scuttle back to the living room at the sound of the toilet flush and water running.

Days later he leaves me locked in the front bedroom as he heads to work, just like always.

Lately, he’s added a new element to our daily dance; he kisses me and tells me to have a good day.

Today he tells me he’ll be home later than usual.

Sometimes he comes home a little late because he needs to do things like grocery shopping and errands.

I nod understandingly, knowing it will give me more time to prod at the window boards in my room.

One of them is getting loose, I think.

I doze for a couple of hours before starting my usual round of testing the boards at the windows and the doorknob, more from habit than actual expectation anything will be different today.

So. When the doorknob moves, I pause. It’s never budged before. My heart pounds.

_It’s unlocked._

The immediate adrenaline coursing through my body makes my fingertips tingle.

I slowly open the door and stand there, just inside the threshold, thinking hard. For a full minute.

Am I really doing this?

I’ve thought about escaping for so long, and now…now is my chance.

I stand stock-still for ages, considering.

_What will happen if I make it to the garage, find a tool, get the ankle bracelet off, and run?_

_Where will I run to?_

_Would anyone help me?_

_What if he ever finds me again?_

My heart flutters wildly in my chest.

_What if he catches me?_

He’s been so easy, so gentle lately, and at night, in bed…it’s been so much better.

Those first horrible weeks are a distant memory. Now I have clothes and food and water and...Ben trusts me, and he's been so happy, lately. 

Would it be so horrible if I just stayed here? As long as I'm good, he'll take care of me.

And if I run...

_What if he catches me and I lose all this ground I’ve gained?_

I step into the hallway.

The ankle bracelet remains quiet. Of course it does. 

_I am allowed to be in the hall, the bedrooms, the bathroom, and most of the living room._

I make my way down the hall to “our” room. I test the door. It’s locked. I turn to the kitchen and step slowly across the floor, my bare feet slightly chilled by the cool tiles.

I can see out the window over the kitchen sink. I glimpse the neighbor’s house and notice snow on the roof.

Snow. It’s winter.

I haven’t been able to see much of outside for a really long time. He keeps the blinds down in all the rooms I occupy, and the window in the bathroom is too high for me to see out of and tiny, to boot.

My bare feet remind me how vulnerable I am.

I step cautiously to the fifth tile and my bracelet buzzes, three sharp warnings. I expected that. I swallow my fear and take a few more steps to the back door, and I’m so _close_ when it starts vibrating non-stop…and I just don’t have the nerve to keep going.

Like a trapped animal, I stand there and stare at my bracelet. I'm losing my nerve, I'm a _coward_ and I hate myself for stopping.

I think, _really_ think about what he will do if I actually escape and he catches me. 

But I'm so close.

I need to escape. Now. Fuck it. I move another step closer to the exit, and I can almost taste freedom.

The bang of a car door just outside jolts me. 

_Oh, fuck. Oh, no, no, he’s home._

Shit. Now what?

He will already know I’ve been out of my room. I try to think frantically what might look more innocent, more _trustworthy_ , so I run for the living room and try to appear as if I’ve been sitting quietly on the sofa.

I use the remote to flip on the TV at the last second and try to put a welcoming smile on my face. 

He came back way too early. I hope it is a coincidence, but I have a feeling it isn’t.

He slams the back door shut, hollering, “Daddy’s home, baby girl! Where are you? In here?”

He stalks into the room on a black cloud of temper. My heartbeat slams to a full stop as he moves into my line of sight.

“Ah. _Here_ you are. You having a good day?” he asks quietly. Too quiet. Shit.

 _Oh, no, no no._

I reply as neutrally as I can, but my voice shakes, and I know I sound guilty as hell. “Um, yeah.”

I don’t know how much specific information the ankle bracelet transmitted. But I am pretty sure he can tell I stepped past the boundary he’d set. Based on the pure hostility radiating from him. 

And I should be in my room right now. Not here. I should not be here.

That unlocked door was a test, and I am quickly realizing I've failed. 

I pull in a trembling breath. It's just so fucking unfair.

 _Please don't kill me._ I can be good again. 

I can be - 

His mouth works into a pout and he glowers down at me. “A little bird told me you've been a naughty girl…that true?” He looks pointedly around the room and kicks the edge of the coffee table, knocking it out of place and making me jump in alarm. He steps closer, as always, prowling like a sleek jungle cat, dark and lethal.

I can’t quite erase the naked fear on my face. I know he can see it.

He looms in front of me, and I am acutely conscious of his gun and badge, his hands planted on his hips.

Canned laughter from the television interrupts my fumbling reply.

He swipes the remote from the arm of the couch and angrily punches at it until the TV turns off.

“You had fun snooping around the house?” His voice takes on that old terrifying velvety growl that tells me I am in deep shit. I begin to shiver uncontrollably and I vaguely realize my body is preparing for a last fight, a last-ditch effort to stay alive.

This. This is what those little fur coat animals felt.

He reaches down to grab my arms, hauling me up until he can scowl directly into my eyes. My feet dangle helplessly, and I try to think of an answer that won’t infuriate him. I can't think.

“I…my door was unlocked. I was watching TV and I got hungry, so I went into the kitchen. Then my ankle bracelet buzzed,” I lie, babbling and utterly unconvincing. “Are you home early today?”

His eyes shutter, and he flings me back into the sofa. I resist the impulse to rub the sting out of my arms from his vise-like grip.

“Stay!” he barks, jabbing a finger at me. I can feel the blood drain from my face, and I become quite aware of how full my bladder is.

Tears well behind my eyes.

“Ben…”

He glares down at me for half a minute before he stomps into the kitchen.

I hear the slam of a drawer and he storms back out before I think to run for it or try to hide. Ah. When fight or flight kicks in, I guess I have to stick with fight.

_You're quite the little fighter._

He carries a small blow torch, the kind they use on _Iron Chef_ to make crème brulee and seared ahi, and the menace in his eyes is enough to make me want to piss myself.

“…no, no, please…Ben…” I beg, scrambling back to press myself against the sofa. Away from that torch.

He ignores my pleading and straddles me, crushing my legs under his weight, the hard objects hanging from his duty belt pressing into my thighs. I cringe away.

No. If I fight him now, he'll kill me. I know it. 

“You wanna leave?” he snarls. “Go ahead. The door’s right there.” He jerks his head to the front door, and I shake my head.

Fuck, I am so scared.

“You wanna go? Say the word, honey,” he snaps, flipping the switch to activate the torch. My blood freezes at the sinister hiss of gas flaring to life.

“No!” I whimper. “I don’t –”

He isn’t having it, though, I can tell. He grabs my hair, yanking it until my head falls back and my neck is exposed. By now I can’t speak, just grunt and whine like a caged animal as he brings the torch closer. My eyes are glued to it, that torch. I can feel its evil heat, not quite close enough to burn but damned well close enough to threaten.

Tears of fear and terror pour down my cheeks as my eyes dart between the torch and him.

“…p-p-please…”

He bares his teeth like a rabid dog. “Say it.”

My whole body shakes violently, but I get the words out in one long ramble, “I don’t want to go anywhere, I was just hungry, I swear. I swear!”

He flings my hair away, disgusted, wrapping my wrist in his massive fist and dragging my arm between us.

Malevolent rage practically sizzles from his skin. “Good,” he says with such deliberate precision I flinch. "This is to help you _remember._ " He bites his lip in concentration and glares at me furiously. "I cannot fucking _believe_ you're making me do this, Rey."

He holds the torch to my arm, just under my shoulder, drawing a searing line of fire that makes me shriek and arch away in an attempt to dislodge him. 

Real pain slams into me a few seconds late, after he’s turned off the torch and clambered off me with an angry huff.

The burn is bright red and angry, already welling with blisters in a long stripe across my upper arm. 

I can't catch my breath, but it hurts beyond belief. 

He stomps into the kitchen and hollers, “I better not hear one fucking peep out of you, Rey! Not a sound!”

My arm, my arm hurts so bad. So much more than a cracked rib. It hurts more than anything. But I can’t make any noise other than a horrible rasping wheeze as I suck air into my lungs, half in shock.

I press my lips together despite the waves of searing agony traveling up my arm into every nerve ending of my body. Cold sweat breaks out over my upper lip. 

“Unless you want to _thank_ me for not doing worse?” He rages back out of the kitchen to once again loom over me, while I writhe in a ball of silent agony on the couch, clutching at my arm just under the burn, afraid to touch the damaged skin.

He whips a long finger into the air so venomously I flinch again. “Next time that bracelet moves out of line, I’ll take that torch to your fucking _face_.”

He kicks the sofa, clearly demanding an answer.

All I can do is nod and sob a wordless agreement.

He yanks my arm and I squeal at the pain of movement, afraid he will touch the burned skin or do more damage. But he simply inspects the injury with a clinical eye and tells me I’ll live, before hurling my hand away in disgust.

His nostrils flare, and I can’t meet his eyes.

“What do you want for dinner?” he snaps. “Something hot?”

I choke back a sob, but I can’t look at him. I am too afraid he will see my intentions and kill me then and there.

I am too afraid he will see the feral desperation of a wounded animal, a creature with nothing left to lose and everything to gain if only it can find a way out of the hunter’s trap.

I squeeze my eyes shut so he can't see.

“God, you’re acting just like a whipped fucking _dog_. I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already cringing like a little bitch.”

He pulls my hair until my scalp burns and my head is bent at an awkward angle. I try not to whimper but I can almost hear the whisper of the blow torch again. Something hot breathes against my neck.

No, no, it's not the torch. He put it back. He put the torch back. 

It’s just his breath. “I had a dog once,” he hisses. “Named it after my mother. Little Princess. Couldn’t be trusted. You remind me of her. A spoiled little bitch.”

I can’t tell if he’s referring to the dog or his mother, but it’s so fucking creepy the way he’s talking, goosebumps break over my skin. Sweet, gentle Ben has all but vanished and it's all my fault.

I sniff and my eyes flutter open. 

“Take off your pants,” he orders and my entire being shrinks at the icy command.

“Ben. Please,” I gasp. I can’t move, my arm hurts so bad.

He doesn’t wait for me to continue, he just flips me over, bending me to kneel over the couch, and jerks my leggings down. I try to hold still, but I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face. I can hear him unbuckling and the sound of his leather belt sliding from the loops of his pants sends wicked terror slithering through me.

He roughly pushes a finger against my pussy, and it burns because I’m not ready for it.

“Dry as a fuckin’ bone. As always,” he criticizes. It's not true, not really because lately - for weeks, now - we haven't even needed the lube bottle and this is so fucking _unfair_. “You’d think you would at least _try_ , baby…you can’t even give me that much, huh?”

I hear him spit and wince as he rubs his wet fingers between my legs. His cupped palm appears next to my face.

“You, too, honey. Spit.”

I try to collect enough saliva for him, knowing if I don’t then what comes next is going to hurt like a sonofabitch.

Saliva drips from my lips to pool in little white bubbles into the cup of his hand, and I take a deep, shuddering breath as I feel him once again slide his wet hand over me.

"Ben, _please_..." My plea is muffled by the couch cushions.

"Please what? You think you don't deserve your punishment? Really?" 

He pushes his fingers inside and I wince at the sting. His voice takes on that sickening gravelly purr that sends slithers down my spine. "How will you ever learn? Hmmm? If I don't keep you on a tight leash?" 

He's a monster. I shouldn't have forgotten. 

The familiar heat of him prods between my legs and I grunt involuntarily as he roughly slams into me from behind. Tears drip down my cheeks and I keep my mouth fucking shut. 

I need to figure out a way to make him trust me again.

I need to think, but it hurts to think.

It hurts to breathe.

I try to relax, but he’s gripping me hard and my burned arm throbs in pain.

He slides into me and draws a finger over the burn, and I rear back and squeal in protest. 

_Stop it! Just stoppleasefuckingstop._

“Oooh, now _that’s_ something, baby,” he grunts, squeezing my arm again, forcing me to seize up and clench around him. “Fuck. A little pain makes you so fuckin’ tight. Feels good.”

He cups his hand around my mouth as I scream again, this time when his belt snaps hard, streaking a line of fire across the side of my upper thigh. He does it again in the same spot, with a vicious grunt and a hard thrust. I try to protect the tender spot with my hands, but he just laughs and pins them down with one of his, leaning into me until I can’t breathe.

“Ahhh, I forgot what a little fighter you are…” he whispers into my hair. “This is what you like? That why you tried to run today? So I’d have to punish your sweet little ass?”

I try to choke out an answer, but he whips me with his belt again, and I burrow into the couch cushions, trying to escape his relentless barrage.

A few more smacks and several hard pumps of his hips into mine and he’s done. I can feel a hot wet spurt down the back of my thigh, and I sputter and heave in relief, acutely aware of his naked lower body, wet with cum, pressed against my butt.

Thankfully that was quick -

Then his fingers smear up the crack of my ass and I clench down all over again. He’s trying to work his finger inside, but he can’t, and I’m going to fight this one with everything I have in me. He strokes his finger over my asshole again, almost enticingly, before he moves away, letting it go for now, so he can push my face into the couch cushions, holding me there.

“I cannot fucking understand why you tried to leave. After everything I’ve done for you.” His fury hasn’t abated as I’d hoped it might if he finished. 

I decide I am going to have to kill him. Or I am going to die here in Suburbia, in this cute little Craftsman bungalow amongst the ignorant middle-class robots going about their daily lives.

Who have absolutely no idea of the beast living right next door.

My arm hurts so bad I can barely think straight.

“Haven’t I taken good care of you?”

I try to nod, but my head is locked in place. “…mmhhmmm…” I groan instead.

“Haven’t I given you a home? A place to sleep? My own fucking bed? Clothes? Food?” I mumble again and hope he takes it for agreement.

“Isn’t that what you _always_ wanted? Someone to take good care of you? A family? She told me that was what you dreamed of,” he growls, voice dangerously low. Fear prickles under my skin.

Something isn’t right. Why is he talking like this?

 _She told me_. Who the hell is he talking about?

“What?” I rasp, my voice thrashed from screaming.

“What you need,” he finally mutters, “is a good, hard dicking down so you _remember_ who’s the boss and who is the _bitch_.”

I shake my head and moan, “…no, please…no, Ben, please…”

He pauses and I grow very still. Behind me, I can feel the darkness pouring off him like radiation. 

When he speaks again, I can't process his words at first. 

“That’s not my name, baby girl."

What does he mean?

He backs away and pulls my leggings over my hips, slapping me hard over the spot where he whipped me with his belt and sending fresh tears into my eyes. I stay put, keeping my face buried in the couch cushions.

"You need to learn your lesson the hard way. I invited some friends over for game night later. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

I shake my head. _No. Wait. What?_

"And when they get here, you better call me Kylo." 

My heart seizes at what I just heard. Kylo. No. That can’t be right.

It…can’t be possible. 

_Rose._

“Kylo Ren?” I blurt out wildly, even my pain temporarily forgotten considering this revelation. Rose eloped with someone named Kylo Ren. "Wait. You're...Rose's fiancé?"

I turn to look at him from the corner of my eye as my pulse careens wildly in my chest. 

"Say the name Ben Solo in front of my friends? And you will die. Slow and hard.”

" _You're_ Kylo Ren?" I ask again. 

He flips me around and stares down with such a menacing combination of contempt and smug satisfaction, I shrivel.

“Yeah, I’m Kylo Ren. You never saw that coming in your little magic ball.”

“What did you do to Rose?” I whisper. 

_You're going to last so much longer than the last one._

He smiles and the blood curdles in my veins.

“Where is she?” I ask again. 

He clucks his tongue, and I wonder how insane he really is.

A monster. He's a monster. 

“Please tell me she’s okay,” I beg.

“She’s just fine,” he assures me. I sigh. 

“She’s sleeping six feet under the hydrangeas out back, even now. Right next to my other dead little pets.”

He yanks me up until I stand before him. He grins, that beautiful, lopsided smile that once sent my heart pattering against my ribs.

“Come on. We need to get you ready for company. I’ll bet my friends are going to absolutely _love_ you.”

* * *


	5. Obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Golden Brown, The Stranglers](https://open.spotify.com/track/2AX5E86cn9n2dgioZEjirI?si=GDioxzF-TyiduNrqancGsw)

# Chapter Five – Obsession

Obsession: ob·ses·sion | \ äb-ˈse-shən, əb-\

**Definition of _obsession_**

**1:** a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling _broadly_ **:** compelling motivation; an _obsession_ with profits; has an _obsession_ with gambling

 **2:** something that causes an obsession; Losing weight can be an _obsession_ that results in the avoidance of certain foods.

* * *

His friends? Pure terror drips into my heart.

“When they get here…?” I mutter. 

… _my friends are absolutely going to love you…_

“You want to what? Share me with them?” I breathe. I can’t believe this. No way. No.

He’s watching me, raptor-like, his gaze holding mine hypnotized, cold as black ice and just as forgiving.

His jaw works and I know he’s thinking. This is when he’s most dangerous, like a cobra right before it strikes.

“Isn’t that what you want?” he replies, deceptively calm, and uneasiness scours at my nerve endings.

Careful, Rey.

“Isn’t that why you want to escape so bad?” he asks silkily. “So you can fuck around on me? Have fun with someone else? We might as well just do it here at home. Since that’s what you want.”

His plush mouth curves into a half-smile, but there’s no humor here. Not a drop. Something deadly hovers in the air between us, and I try to figure out what to say so I don’t get myself killed. Or gang-raped, then killed.

I can only stare at him, feeling like nothing but a cornered creature staring into the slathering, snarling, razor-sharp fangs of Death itself.

“You think I haven’t noticed you pushing it for weeks, now? Testing your boundaries? Trying to find a way out? You think it was a fucking accident I left your door unlocked today?”

“What?” I shake my head. I don’t know the steps to this dance.

“Don’t you _want_ to fuck my friends? You do, don’t you?”

This has become so twisted, so convoluted, and I’m still trying to process what happened to Rose and my arm is killing me.

“Answer me, _whore_ ,” he snarls, slapping me so hard my head snaps back and I bite my tongue.

“No!” I choke around the blood pooling in my mouth, as I finally grasp what he’s talking about. No, I don’t want to fuck his friends.

He’s pacing back and forth, and all I can think is he’s insane and this is crazy.

He turns, sighting in on me cringing on the sofa. He jerks me up by the arms until I’m dangling against him again, and he’s glaring into my eyes like he’s going to excavate every thought I’ve ever had straight out of my head. Right before he rips it off with his bare hands.

“No,” I gasp again. _“Please.”_

_This is it. My last words. My last words are going to be me begging him not to kill me._

He shakes me hard enough to rattle my teeth, and I whimper, “I don’t want anybody but you. Please.”

“We’ll see about that,” he hisses.

He pushes me ahead of him, and he’s guiding me into the kitchen, and I panic. This is another trick or a trap or test of some kind. It has to be.

The kitchen is out of bounds, and that’s where he keeps the blow torch and my arm is fucking screaming in agony, and I try to brace myself against the threshold.

I’m not supposed to go in there, ever, and he’s shoving me and suddenly I’m fighting to stay behind the invisible line, grunting and clawing at the doorway with a pathetic muffled, “nononono, I’ll be good, no wait no wait _no_ …”

He pushes me through with an aggravated sigh. Right past the fifth tile on the floor.

My ankle bracelet buzzes three times and I drop to the floor. I land on my burned arm and cry out.

I can’t go any farther. He’ll kill me. He said.

He hefts me by the armpits and flings me at a chair next to the kitchen table. “Sit!”

I sit.

“Stay!”

My ankle bracelet vibrates non-stop, and he pulls the special key from his pocket and unlocks it, and I am sure he is going to kill me now.

This whole thing is fucking surreal.

I watch warily as he moves to open a cupboard across from me and pulls out the blow torch again.

If you’ve ever been burned, _really_ burned, then you already know the absolute and utter dread of being burned again.

My mouth goes dry and my entire body starts to tremble with involuntary spasms of sheer anxiety. I can’t stop shaking and seizing up at the sight of that torch.

I look at his eyes, but he’s lost in thought, methodical and calm as he opens a drawer and pulls out a tea spoon. My heart hammers inside me and I can’t stop shivering.

His mood swings are too much. I just want it to stop. I don’t think I can take much more.

And then I think of Rose.

_She’s sleeping six feet under the hydrangeas out back, even now. Right next to my other dead little pets._

More than one. He’s a monster. I need to make sure he knows this if he’s going to kill me or burn me with the blow torch again. If he does, I think I might die from the pain alone.

So, I need to tell him what he needs to know while I still have a chance.

I refuse to go out begging. Fuck that.

I straighten my spine and sniff hard, clearing the snot from my nose.

He cocks a brow and stares at me as if I’m a mildly interesting thing he’s never seen before.

I will not look away. If these are my final moments I will not go down like some whipped dog.

I will not.

A bloodless sneer crosses his face, and I waver.

Nevertheless, I whisper, “You’re a monster."

“Yes, I am,” he agrees. “And you need to get that through your thick head. Or you’re gonna end up in the ground next to your friend out there.”

He tilts his head in the direction of the back yard, and I feel the blood drain from my face. “I’ll bet she’s fulla worms by now. What do you think?”

I think I’m going to throw up.

He sets the torch on the table, right under my nose, and places the spoon next to it, like he’s setting the table for tea. He goes to his jacket, hanging on a peg by the back door, and takes something from the pocket.

My heartbeat kicks into double-time. What is this? What is he doing? Some elaborate serial killer ritual?

He answers my question like he’s reading my mind. “I’m not going to kill you.”

He places a baggie of whitish powder next to the spoon, along with a capped syringe.

Drugs. What the fuck?

I glance up at him, confused. He doesn’t act like a user, and I’ve known more than a few. But he can’t be using, because he’s way too consistent and healthy and I haven’t noticed track marks…

“It’s not for me,” he says, again reading my thoughts.

My stomach clenches in dread. Oh, no. My eyes break from his and lock on the baggie. My watered-down potion was bad enough, but this? I can’t.

“No.”

He seats himself across from me and cracks his neck, and I try not to flinch at the awful crunching sound. “I don’t need to kill you," he says. "Not if I can just _own_ you, instead.”

“…Ben… _Kylo_ …I don’t want that…”

“Oh, yes you do. You just don’t know it yet. You, baby girl, are about to be converted to the Church of H. Consider me your new priest. I’m about to anoint you with the holiest of holies. And then you are going to bow down and worship me. Every. Fucking. Night.”

He loosens his gun from the holster at his side and sets it on the table next to the blow torch. Deliberately.

I stare at the gun for a full minute, wondering if I am quick enough, _desperate_ enough to make a grab for it. But I know fuck-all about guns. Is the safety on or is it even loaded? I have no idea.

And he knows it, too.

He’s toying with me, and severe regret washes over me as I realize I could have prevented all this by simply staying in my room this morning.

He sees it on my face and his sneer softens to a scowl. “I _do_ have company coming tonight and I can’t afford to have you fuck it up, baby girl. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but you’ve left me no choice…”

He sounds almost sorry, as he opens the baggie and scoops out some powder with the spoon.

Maybe he is. Sorry, I mean.

“Where did you get that?” He’s a cop, and cops aren’t supposed to be carrying around drugs and paraphernalia, are they?

He looks at me with this _are you fucking serious?_ expression and I squirm, uncomfortably aware of how incredibly stupid and naïve that question is.

He’s obviously a dirty cop.

“What if…what if I’m pregnant, Ben?” I’m reaching, trying to appeal to a side of him I’m not sure exists.

I’ve touched a nerve. His eyes flash to mine in warning and I grope for something else. Anything to change his mind.

“Why is company coming?” I ask, excruciatingly aware of his minutes-ago accusation that I might want to fuck his friends. I try to keep any trace of hope from leaking through my voice because any friend of his would most likely not be interested in helping me.

The thought does briefly cross my mind, though.

“Well, I have a little business on the side, and I can’t afford to screw it up. They don’t know I’m a cop – they only know me as Kylo,” he explains as he lights the blow torch. I flinch as the gas flares to life and my arm starts throbbing in phantom alarm and the exquisitely _precise_ memory of what that scorching heat feels like when it sears the tender meat of my flesh.

But he doesn’t point the flame in my direction.

No, instead he sets it on the table and holds the spoon over it.

“…you want me to meet your friends? They’re coming over later?” I prompt, trying to find a way I can work this, gain some possible advantage. But most of my attention is riveted on the spoon and the torch.

“You’re not meeting anyone,” he barks. “Now shut the fuck up. I’ll make sure you sleep right through it. Can’t have you talking when they get here and check the house.” He says this last quietly, as if to himself.

I want to ask what he means, but I can’t look away from the powder as it melts and bubbles in the spoon.

Once it has liquefied, he uncaps the syringe and draws the stuff in.

He licks his lips and murmurs, “Gonna knock you out cold, so you don’t get us both killed.”

His eyes glitter into mine as he holds up that loaded syringe and fresh panic floods me.

Drugs are bad, so dangerous. I could overdose, I could get hooked. I’ve seen many a person become enslaved, transformed into mindless zombies who could give a shit about anything but their next fix.

I don’t want that to be me.

A tear slides down my cheek, and I whisper, “Please. I don’t want that. I’ll be good. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to leave. I _promise_.”

“Put your arm on the goddamn table.”

Another tear follows, and he glares at me without pity or remorse.

“Put your fucking arm out, Rey. You don’t have a choice.” His gaze flickers to the gun and back to mine, so I lay my out my arm, the one that isn’t throbbing in pain from being burned by his damned blow torch.

I’ve never felt so vulnerable, exposing the inside of my arm to him.

He grips my wrist in one hand and pulls my arm straight, sighting in on a line of blue tracing just inside the tender crease of my elbow.

“Please don’t,” I whimper.

But he merely shushes me and frowns in concentration, pushing at a spot with his thumb.

I can’t take my eyes off the needle as he presses it to the blue of my vein and mutters, “You’re gonna be feeling all kinds of good in about five seconds, don’t worry.”

He stabs the needle in, calculated, precise, and my arm jerks involuntarily against his firm grip. And as he plunges that poison into my bloodstream, I hiss through my teeth at the burning sting.

He’s done this before, apparently. Because I think he’s a fucking serial killer.

No. I’m _sure_ of it. He’s a fucking serial killer. He said Rose was with his _other_ dead pets. More than one. A series. As in serial. 

I’ve been kidnapped and held captive by a serial killer and I think he’s also a drug dealer and now I am going to get hooked on heroin and die.

A year ago, I couldn’t have predicted any of this, not in any scenario, not in any alternate universe.

This is just _so_ not how I thought my life was going to go.

_I’ll bet that’s what every single victim of a serial killer thinks right before they die._

And the irony hits me. Madam Sunshine…couldn’t see her way out of a paper bag…

Madam Sunshine was a rather shitty fortune teller.

Laughter bubbles up and I can’t hold it in. Oh, how fucking ironic. This. Is. _Hysterical_.

He’s watching me, amusement dancing in his eyes. Something awakens inside me and I reach for it with both hands.

Oh, hahahahahahaha… _oh_. Shit. _Shit_.

My eyes fly to his in shock. Does he know? What’s happening inside me right now? Holy _fuck_. Oh, wow.

A prolonged “Ohhhh” escapes my lips and he was right. I have found my new religion, temple, and scripture. This. This is the altar on which I will lay down my life.

Baptized right here at this kitchen table next to a blackened spoon and a used syringe and this _feeling_.

I was made for this, born to feel this way.

I want to die like this, feeling this way.

I don’t care about the sun or fresh air and I don’t need it because I’m never fucking leaving this place because I’m free right here and now, fucking flying – I have everything I need.

A small chuckle escapes him and suddenly I’m laughing back into those pretty amber eyes sparkling at me with dark humor. I can’t describe the _rush_ , but I get it now, I so fucking _get it_. I understand.

“You must feel like a million bucks,” he grins, and I think I _love_ him.

Maybe I do. No. I love this feeling. This is better than money, definitely better than sex. He has blessed me in the way and the truth and the light and I’m fucking born again and it’s coursing through my veins like holy water, and I am in heaven on earth.

“What’s my name? My real one. You remember?”

 _Kylo._ “Ky-lo.” My tongue is full and heavy, and I can hear my heartbeat thrumming in my ears, but he’s watching me with hooded eyes, and I’m locked in, locked and loaded, can’t move can’t blink can’t stop flying.

He scoots closer, his chair scraping harshly against the kitchen tiles, but I’m slouching in my seat, riding waves of pure bliss, enlightened, free as a goddamn bird, gonna fly away.

My eyelids fall to nearly closed, and they are heavy, it’s hard to keep them open, except I think Kylo wants me to stay awake. A lazy smile slides over my face. I’m trying to ask a question, but I can’t.

“Wha – wha – wh…?” I pant.

_What is this?_

“You like it?”

I love it. Looooooove it. And I love him for giving it to me.

“…love you…” I slur. I’m starting to weave back and forth in my seat, my spine feels like stacked Jello, and the waves are hitting me in hard beautiful surges of pure, unadulterated bliss, making my body shudder from head to toe.

He moves slowly but deliberately, like a predator who doesn't want to startle its prey, his voice velvety soft and enticing. “I’ll bet I could do just about anything I want to you right now, and you wouldn’t give two fucks about it.”

He’s absolutely right, but all I can do is watch and smile as he stands and pulls me gently to my feet. I can’t hold myself up. Another wave of euphoria hits me good and hard, so I lean against him because he’s warm and solid and he smells really good, like he’s been outside in the fresh air all morning.

I glance down at the table, looking at the needle to see if there’s any _stuff_ left in it, but he tracks my gaze and picks up his gun, instead. My neck bends and weaves, trying to keep my head from lolling back as I look back up at him.

He strokes the barrel of his gun down my cheek and presses the cold metal lightly against my jaw.

“Yeah. Thought so,” he croons, and he looks so engrossed, so _fascinated_ to be holding his gun there, against my bruised face. “I could spray your brains all over this kitchen. How about that? Then you could leave me forever…is that what you want?”

I laugh. Leave? Why the hell would I want to leave?

My hand snakes up his chest then moves to his, holding it and the gun steady as I slide the barrel up to my temple and he can pull the trigger if he wants to _, go ahead Ky-lo_ , because I don’t _fucking_ _care_ and it would be hilarious for you to have to clean up my brains and _if_ _you make a mess you clean it up_ –

“Boom!” I blurt out, and it startles him into moving the gun away. 

His eyes narrow, and he pulls that luscious bottom lip of his between his teeth and shakes his pretty head.

“Huh. Not so scared of me anymore?”

I shake my head _no_ and wrap my arms around his neck, digging my fingers into his hair. So soft.

“I’m _not_ ,” I sing. Well. It’s true. Even if he is a drug-dealing, serial killer-rapist piece of shit.

“Hmmm. About that dicking down I mentioned…” Something enters his voice, a sly canniness. He’s still testing me. “You _sure_ you only want me? Like you said earlier?”

 _Oooooh, puh-leaze._ Let’s just get it over with so I can lie down and let this rapture flow through me.

My hand falls to his chest and I slide it rather sloppily down the front of his uniform, right over his pants, zipped, but not belted – where’s his belt no belt that’s right he used it already – to cup the growing bulge at his crotch.

“Turn around,” he growls softly.

I try but I’m going to fall. He shoves me and I end up face down ass up on the kitchen table. The blow torch and spoon are pushed away, and I hear them clatter to the floor. My cheek is smashed into the wood and I decide now is probably a good time to lay down and rest my eyes.

I am sleepy.

My eyelids flutter closed, and I feel him fumbling behind me, my leggings yanked down around my knees and a loud rip of fabric. My arms aren’t working.

My arm was burned. Blow torched.

Does it hurt? I dunno.

I feel a line of drool escape my open mouth and I want to move my head, but something is behind me.

Ben. No. _Kylo_.

He grabs a handful of my ass and squeezes hard enough for it to jar through my high, and I yelp, “Ouch!”

“Oh, good. Still awake. Listen up, baby. This is important.”

I try to listen, but the edge of the table is cutting into the tops of my thighs. I try to arch my back and my face is instantly smashed back down into the hard wood of the table. _Stay down_.

My cheekbone digs in to the unforgiving surface and the cold press of metal on my neck tells me he’s holding his gun on me again.

“Don’t you fucking pass out, yet. If you go to sleep right now, I don’t know if you’ll wake up.”

Who fucking cares if I wake up? I fucking don’t.

“Stay awake Rey. I really want you to _feel_ this…” The gun slides down my spine and into the crack of my ass and it’s cold.

“… _mmmph_ …” I try to protest, but I’m also trying to remember how to breathe through the dense fucking air. “…feel whah?”

I sense he’s stepped away and I hear a cupboard door slam. Things are getting very slow. Like the whole world is thick and heavy and instead of air, I’m moving through water.

I feel a cold trickle down the crack of my ass. It’s wet and slippery. Like oil.

Oil? Olive oil? _We put that shit on our fucking salads, Kylo. Eew._

“…the fuck?” I barely register a dark chuckle behind me, and two large hands spread me wide open. “Whaddid you jus’ puddon me?” 

“Shut up.”

I feel him prodding at my butt. “Wrong hole,” I mumble sarcastically.

“I don’t think so,” he grunts.

I feel a slight burning stretch as he pushes a finger inside. Nope. That’s not his finger – _oh!_

He’s breathing rather raggedly and I might have dozed off for a sec because now I’m bouncing against the table and the chair across from me is bouncing too and I realize he’s fucking me in the ass and I’m just lying here face down in a puddle of drool on the kitchen table, high out of my goddamn mind. I should probably just let him finish.

_Just let him._

Except.

_Shouldn’t be doing this in the kitchen. You make our food in here. We’re not animals, Kylo._

“Dirty,” I mutter.

No, this is beyond dirty, it’s _gross_ , it really is. I try to rear back so I can get off the stupid table, but he smashes my head back down and just goes harder and now it’s kinda hurting and he’s breathing rough and grunting…

_It’s gross it’s gross it’s gross._

“Gross!” I twist my hips away. _Stop it._

He slams into me hard and I shriek at the shock of pain. “You. Said. You…wanted me, bitch. Were you _lying_?”

 _Ow, ow, ow, this hurts._ “Get off me, you dirty pig!”

“No. More. Talking.”

_No talking?_

Fucking asshole.

“Fuck you!” I bellow, trying to thrash away.

He pulls out and hauls me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. _Did he come already? I can’t tell, but I don't think he did._

The room spins and I hold on.

“Don’t drop me,” I groan.

He smacks me hard on the ass and carries me to his room.

Oh, good I need a nap. He tosses me on the bed and a sliver of unease slides into my perfect beautiful high. My head falls back, and I close my eyes. Maybe now he’ll leave me alone…

“Oh, no. No sleep for you. We’re not done yet.”

* * *


	6. Dissension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Heroin, Badflower](https://open.spotify.com/track/0leJYiYyZE6jjXCEVYUQAm?si=7ecy2fMhT8ajXMMwmpqUXA)

# Chapter Six – Dissension

Dissension: dis·sen·sion | \ di-ˈsen(t)-shən \

variants: _or less commonly_ dissention

**Definition of _dissension_ : **

DISAGREEMENT _especially_ : partisan and contentious quarreling; causing _dissension_ within the police department; a colony threatened by religious _dissension_

* * *

I wake up and it’s dark. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out, but my high has faded, and my body feels like a used punching bag.

No. Worse.

I feel like I have been repeatedly run over by a fully loaded Mack truck.

Let’s start at the top.

My hair hurts.

My face and neck are sore, one spot on my neck is pulsing with agony. _Damn_. Ouch. Did he bite me again? Ow, yes, I think he did.

What happened to him as a child that made him a goddamn biter of all things?

My tongue still aches, too, from when I bit it when he slapped me earlier.

And my burned arm. Oh, _fuck_ , now _that_ really hurts, especially now that I’m thinking about it. And on the opposite arm, the inside of my elbow stings. I know if I look, I will see a tiny little hole there.

Speaking of holes. My butt hurts. Like, unbelievably bad. I do vaguely recall him promising at one point he was going to rearrange my guts for me, and I think he just might have succeeded.

Every joint in my body feels like it’s been wrenched out of place and shoved back into place just a little bit _off_ , like a jigsaw piece that’s been forced into a puzzle that almost works, but not quite.

My thighs and ass feel like raw, pulverized meat.

_What’s my name? Say it._

Kylo…game night…company’s coming…

_…you sure you don’t wanna fuck my friends?_

Shit. I can’t clear my head.

_You better fucking remember._

I am supposed to remember something. I wish I could remember what it is. But I can’t.

My face hurts. I am going to be black and blue tomorrow. If I live that long.

My eyes adjust to the dim light filtering in through the blinds. I’m lying face down on the bed in his room.

A plastic bag from Wal-Mart sits at the foot of the bed and it occurs to me I’m naked. _Did he leave me here to go to the store? Or has he had this the whole time?_

My ankle bracelet is gone, and I stare at my bare ankle for a few minutes, trying to figure out what happened. Oh, right. He took the bracelet off in the kitchen. My leg feels extra light without the slight weight of it reminding me I am a prisoner.

How strange.

I grope around, but I can’t find my t-shirt. I remember him shredding my leggings, and I feel kind of sad. More than sad. Tears well up at the thought of my _clothes_ , the only real possessions I’ve been allowed to have since I came here, destroyed and cast away, no longer mine. No longer functional.

Like me.

I’m an animal. Naked and defenseless and trapped in a cage.

There’s a murky bottle of water next to me. I don’t care if it’s drugged, I’m suddenly so thirsty I uncap it and gulp it down eagerly.

Ah. Yes, it’s familiar. My _potion_. What is this stuff? I wonder.

After a minute, the pain I’m feeling blurs, and I feel a little better, if not still rather disoriented.

I poke inside the Wal-Mart bag and find a sundress. I know the dress is for me so I try to figure out how to put it on in the filtered moonlight before realizing I can just flip on the light switch. Unlike the front bedroom, the light switch is inside this room; these older homes have some weird quirks in the wiring. The switch for the other bedroom is in the hallway, right next to the door.

But in this room, it is inside. I lurch out of bed, crashing into the bedroom door, and I turn on the lights. Shit. My body isn’t working right.

It’s almost too bright now, but I need to see.

I look more closely at the dress. It’s yellow and green, pretty, with a tag on it that tells me someone found it on clearance for $7.98.

I peel off the red clearance tag, and I find another underneath. It is yellow and says the dress used to cost $11.97.

I pick at the corners of the yellow. I am very, very careful as I peel it off to see the original price. $18.96. Not bad.

He got a good deal. More than fifty percent off. Smart shopper.

I fumble with the dress and pull off the tag, briefly considering if I might use the thin piece of plastic attached to it as some kind of tool. I could try sticking it into the keyhole of my ankle bracelet if he puts it back on me.

_Why did he take it off?_

I wander to the bedroom window and pull back the curtain, my movements jerky and ungraceful. The window has been nailed shut, of course. I’m not even surprised.

I eye the plastic bag and consider suffocating myself. I actually go as far as pulling the bag over my head, but loosely. My breath steams up the inside almost instantly. All I would have to do is tie a knot and let the plastic do the rest…except I just can’t quite bring myself to do it.

I don’t want to die. Not today.

I pull the bag off my head and look at his dresser, the only other furniture in the room besides the bed and a nightstand. My ankle bracelet sits on top. I open the drawers, looking for a weapon, but there are just clothes in there. I slam the drawers closed rather hard, growing annoyed.

I hear strange voices in the living room. Company’s here. Game Night, he called it. That’s code for some shady deal, I’m sure.

_Don’t you want to fuck my friends? You do, don’t you?_

No. I don’t want to fuck your friends, you sick fuck.

 _“Rey? That you, honey?”_ That’s him, speak of the Devil.

Shit. He sounds upset.

“Rey?” he calls again.

“…be right out…” I mumble, stopping myself from calling him _Ben_ in the nick of time.

I almost called him Ben and my heart pounds under my ribs. _Say the name Ben Solo in front of my friends? And you will die. Slow and hard._

I wish I could remember what else he’d told me before I blacked out. I have a feeling it was important.

I’m still thirsty. If I’m good, maybe he’ll give me some more water.

_Maybe he’ll give you another taste of that other stuff…_

I make sure my sundress covers me to the knees and walk on wobbly legs out to the living room.

Five men wearing rather rough-around-the-edges street clothes stand around the coffee table, along with Kylo. Kylo isn’t wearing his police officer uniform – of course not, they don’t know he’s a cop, and I _cannot_ forget that little tidbit or he'll kill me. He’s wearing black jeans and a black, long-sleeved t-shirt, and he looks dangerous and handsome and furious.

They all turn in unison as I approach.

I can feel his friends’ eyes crawling all over me. I am immediately and one-hundred percent sure I will not be seeking help from any of these people. I lick my lips. Other than Kylo, I haven’t seen another human being for months and months. I’m not sure what to do, so I stand there, unsure.

One of his “friends” is glaring at me like I’m a plague rat and I decide that will be my nickname for him. The others display varying degrees of suspicion as they eye me warily. Yep. These are criminals.

But the warm buzz of my potion sinks in, infusing me as always with a sense of recklessness, a loss of inhibition.

“Why does she look all beat up, Ren?” asks a skinny one with a thick Mexican accent. _Slim_.

“Rough sex,” Kylo bites out before I have time to get offended. “She likes it. Dontcha, baby girl?”

 _Be good. Stay calm._ “Yes,” I whisper, instead of spitting on him like I want to.

“Thought you said she’d be down for the rest of the night. She ain’t another one of your little junkie sluts who's gonna cause trouble, is she?” another one asks. He’s wearing a leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders.

“Nuh-uh,” Kylo replies coolly, shooting a quelling glare at Spikes.

“Prove it.”

“Show ‘em your arms, baby. It’s okay.” Kylo lifts his chin and I obediently hold out my arms, aware of one conspicuous little hole among the various bruises and a very painful burn.

One of the criminals zeroes right in on where Kylo shot me up with heroin earlier. “What’s that?”

I’m running out of creative nicknames for these douchebags. He can be _Asky_.

Kylo opens his mouth to reply, but Asky snaps, “I asked _her_ , not you.”

“…bloodwork,” I lie without missing a beat. “HIV screening.”

My inquisitor nods and rakes me with an evaluative stare. I refuse to cringe and instead glare back at him rebelliously.

“She _looks_ clean,” he says, narrowing his eyes in threat.

Spikes is watching us and scowling, and I think he's trying to look intimidating. I want to laugh in his face. Does this guy think he’s scary? Not even close.

I look to Kylo, easily the most frightening person in the room. His eyes smolder like twin coals and he bends his finger. _Come here._

I go to him because I know for an absolute fact if I disobey, these so-called friends of his will tear me to pieces without hesitation.

Kylo will tear me to pieces later. But, better I stick with the devil I know. For now.

I slip under Kylo’s outstretched arm and allow him to pull me into his side, casually, as if my interruption was of no significance.

“You think you’re being cute? Is that what you fucking think?” he hisses into my ear.

“Cute?” I parrot back lamely. His hand tightens painfully at my hip and I suck in a deep breath as I finally remember what he told me earlier.

_If you wake up, do not, under any circumstances, leave this room tonight, Rey. I mean it. Not for any reason. Not even if I call for you or the house is burning down. You stay in here. If someone comes in to check on you, pretend you’re asleep. But stay in here._

Shit fuck shit. I overhear one of the other guys mutter, “That little _puta_ is in for a rough night only she don’t seem to know it yet…”

_You stay in this room no matter what, you understand?_

“We all square on the plan?” Kylo asks the room at large, giving me another squeeze, hard enough to bruise. I press my lips between my teeth.

“Yeah, boss. We’re good.” Something is going on here, some undercurrent of danger is making its presence known.

“Good. Baby, go back to bed and wait for me okay?” He murmurs against my neck, nuzzling the spot where he bit me earlier. A warning. I am in deep fucking shit.

“Okay,” I reply quietly.

 _“El baño?”_ Plague Rat asks.

Kylo nods in the direction of the hallway. Plague Rat heads for the bathroom, and I follow a few steps behind so I can slip into the bedroom as Kylo told me to. But when I reach the door a strange, clammy hand clamps over my mouth and I feel a wet hiss in my ear. I freeze.

“You think I can’t tell you’re high as a kite, _puta_? I got my eye on you. I think _el jefe_ might be a little blinded by love. Eh?”

_I doubt it. He’s a jealous psychopath, you moron. Oh, and he’s a fucking serial killer._

Which reminds me. I need to get the hell away from here at some point.

But I also need to play the hand I’ve been dealt and right now, it occurs to me I have an opportunity to bank some of the lost trust from my earlier, poorly-executed escape attempt and possibly to mitigate some of Kylo’s fury for me disobeying him just now... 

I jerk my head and the hand unclamps from my mouth.

I turn so I can look Plague Rat right in the eye. He’s not nearly as tall as Kylo.

“He’s gonna kill you for touching me,” I murmur, glaring at him wrathfully.

“I doubt it,” he scoffs quietly.

“Bathroom’s over there,” I say louder, hoping it will be loud enough for the others to hear.

He sneers and, like me, says loudly enough to carry his words out to the other room, “My mistake, miss.”

He disappears into the bathroom and I take a deep breath. I wait a few seconds and make a decision, bolstered in no small part by my recent ingestion of _potion_ , which always dulls my usually acute sense of self-preservation.

Instead of going to bed, I return to the living room.

Slim and Asky sit on the sofa, waiting for their fellow criminal to use the bathroom, and Spikes and the other one stand by the TV, deep in conversation with Kylo.

Kylo’s eyes blaze with ill-disguised temper when he sees me; I’m disobeying him in front of company now, and he’s not happy about it. He’s _livid._

_That little puta is in for a rough night only she don’t seem to know it yet…_

A chill snakes down my spine.

But I steel myself and walk up to him, wrapping my arm around his neck. I let a quiver of fear tremble through me, knowing he can feel it, and I whisper shakily, “Kylo, that man said something bad to me.”

“Who? Teedo?” Kylo nods in the direction of the bathroom and I breathe, “Yeah.”

“What did he say, baby?” he purrs, even as his eyes flash into mine stormy with rage. He’s pissed off for sure, but he’s waiting patiently for me to answer him.

_Shit, this gamble better work._

“Something about fucking my little _panocha_ bloody over my dead _Papi's_ corpse,” I lie. “I think he meant you. What’s a _panocha_?” I widen my eyes innocently. 

I’ve never played so hard, but this is too good an opportunity to pass up, and if I know Kylo or Ben or whatever the heck he wants to call himself, then I am betting this might flip him into Monster Mode.

As I’m hoping, Kylo’s nostrils flare and he snaps, _“What?”_

I nod and cling to him. “…and then he grabbed my ass, even though I told him _no_ and I said you’d kill him for touching me…and he just laughed and said you were blind.”

“Is that so?” Kylo bites out each word and my hair stands on end.

I’m betting everything I have on a shit hand, but if I can pull this off… It’s never been so easy to let a tear slip free. Kylo watches it trail down my cheek and sighs.

The others shift nervously, but none of them stick up for their friend, so I assume the guy is a regular jackass.

I hear the toilet flush and a conspicuous lack of water running afterward. Eew. Teedo isn’t a hand-washer and he put his hand over my mouth. Gross.

He comes out of the bathroom, and Kylo gently disentangles me, spinning me to stand just in front of him, facing the room, keeping one heavy hand on my shoulder. I realize he either intends to use me as a human shield or to disguise the fact he’s pulling his gun and I hope to God it’s the second one.

Teedo’s eyes widen in shock when he sees me and puts two and two together.

“You touched her?” Kylo snarls from behind me.

“No! No way, boss. Whatever she told you is a lie – I swear!”

“Everyone else get the fuck out. Except you. You stay.”

Everyone shuffles out.

I hear movement and another voice on the front porch. There must be someone else out there, keeping watch. I file that away. There are six of them, plus Kylo.

 _Seven_.

Teedo is looking a little green around the gills, glancing frantically at the front door as it closes, leaving him alone with me and Kylo.

“You said I’m blind?” Kylo growls.

Teedo looks guilty and scrambles for a defense, but I know Kylo. He’s ruthless and doesn’t own a drop of mercy in his twisted soul.

Teedo seems to realize this as he whispers, “Who are you gonna believe? Me? Or some strung-out junkie?”

I glance back over my shoulder and Kylo’s eyes glow with black fire, now. I’m finally getting more than a little bit of a murderous vibe off him. Even not directed at me, it’s rather chilling.

Actually, it’s fucking terrifying.

“She has no reason to lie,” he mutters coldly.

Before I can register it, a very loud explosion rips through the air right next to my ear and Teedo’s brains are painted all over the living room wall. There’s a smoking hole in the plaster and blood and chunks of brain and skull are dripping down from everywhere, even the ceiling.

It’s unbelievable, that Teedo even had that much blood in him. The top of his head and half his face are gone, obliterated into pinkish-gray chunks and white bone shards and red, red blood. Half the room suddenly looks like a goddamn Quentin Tarantino movie. The reek of iron and filth overpowers my senses and a wave of nausea crashes into me.

Shit.

All I can say is “Oh my God.” My ears are ringing from the gunshot.

I gasp and turn to look at Kylo.

Kylo glowers at me, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans.

_Now there are six._

My legs are rubbery, and I sit on the sofa, wide-eyed. I can’t take my eyes off Teedo splattered all over the living room.

“Oh my God,” I say again. I think I’m going into shock. Which is in itself a shock, considering this is exactly the result I’d been hoping to orchestrate.

“Calm the fuck down. You’re acting like you’ve never seen a dead person before.”

Uh, I haven’t.

And I’ve definitely never witnessed someone get blown away two feet away from me.

Dude’s brains are all over the place. My ears are still ringing.

“I’m sorry I came out of the bedroom. I forgot what you told me earlier…to stay in there? I didn’t remember until I was already out here.”

Kylo is just standing there, staring at the body and the unbelievable mess.

“It’s okay,” he finally grunts. “I never did trust that little fucker. Better I find out sooner than later where his loyalties were. You helped flush him out for me.” Kylo runs his gaze over me.

“Um. Thanks for the dress,” I mumble into the awkward silence. I’m pushing my luck. Kylo isn’t used to me talking this much, and I’m not totally sure he won’t turn on me. He’s unpredictable. A self-acknowledged monster, I remind myself.

But he’s calming down. “I ripped your leggings earlier, so I got you that.” It is an almost-apology, and I’m not sure what to say.

He turns back to survey the half-headless body on the floor. “Fuck.”

“You made the mess, you clean it up,” I whisper before I can stop myself. I don’t know why it’s so funny, but it is. I giggle.

He cocks his head and looks over the carnage. “This really is a fuckin’ mess, yeah?”

His chest is shaking, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s laughing, too.

I’m doubled over, laughing so hard I can barely stand up and he’s chuckling and shaking his head at the gore all over the place. And it dawns on me that everything is going to be okay.

“It’s g-g-good – good you didn’t – good you didn’t shoot me earlier, or y-y-you’d really be fucked!” I wheeze, suddenly hysterical and moving very quickly into the realm of I-don’t-fucking-care-anymore. “You’d have to just burn the house down and start over.”

He grins. I probably shouldn’t be giving him any ideas, but yeah. At this point, if I die there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Besides, my potion has kicked in, and although it’s nothing like the delicious shit Kylo shot me up with earlier, I feel pretty good, relatively speaking.

I know the crash is coming, but not for a little while longer.

He snorts and walks into the kitchen. The back door slams and I realize I could walk out the front door right now. Except I would have to maneuver around some drug dealer’s blood and brains, I have no shoes or coat, and he'd just hunt me down and murder me anyway, so I might as well make it easy on myself and stick around.

He returns a few minutes later with a large blue tarp, and he’s eyeing me almost appreciatively. Like he’s pleasantly surprised I’m still here.

“Not as dumb as I thought you were. That’s good, baby girl,” he grunts, bending to lay the tarp out next to the body on the floor and roll Teedo inside like a giant human burrito.

It’s funny. Teedo-burrito. It rhymes.

I snort with laughter and I cannot catch my breath.

It’s too much. Too fucking much.

Kylo groans a bit as he hefts Teedo the dead burrito over his shoulder and carries him outside to the back.

Right before the back door slams shut, I have a thought. “Wait! Ben! Kylo!” I shout.

“Whut?” he hollers from the back door.

“Don’t put him with Rose. Please.”

A heavy sigh.

“Fine. Go grab a blanket and your ankle bracelet off my dresser and get your ass out here. Pronto.”

I run to his bedroom and yank the comforter off the bed, running to the back door before remembering to get my ankle bracelet too.

I’m suddenly very very tired.

Halfway through the kitchen, I meet his eyes and skid to a stop, acutely conscious that I am about to cross the boundary.

“Come on. I won’t hurt you. Just need you to come with me while we get rid of this.”

He lurches and the Teedo burrito hits the pavers of the walkway with a horrible wet thud.

“Come here,” he growls.

I obey because I don’t have a choice. Plus, I’m going for a ride and I’ve been indoors for a really long time.

It’s freezing out here and I’m instantly shivering, teeth chattering as I wrap the comforter around my shoulders.

He kneels in front of me, and for the second time since we met, Kylo reminds me of a lover about to propose marriage.

Until death do us part.

I giggle and he looks up from locking my bracelet into place.

“What’s so funny?” he asks grumpily. “We’re going to have to drive for hours to ditch this guy in the woods somewhere. You have no idea what a pain in the ass that is going to be.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” I soothe as he glares up at me.

His face softens into something closer to affection and he grunts, "You will, will you?"

And I realize I am going to survive. Because I’ve found a way, figured it out.

I’m going to be so, so good. I _am_ going to help him. Whatever it takes.

And then I’m going to kill this bastard when he least expects it.

Because if I don’t? He will never let me go.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @ZiaLisa for the term “Monster Mode” – you said this in an earlier comment, and I couldn’t resist putting it into the story. ;)


	7. Compulsion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cream On Chrome, Ratatat](https://open.spotify.com/track/34v7Zs9a64h1xC3PWrmypP?si=wIsHbyHxTpSzqkSe-3mRig)

# Chapter Seven – Compulsion

com·pul·sion | \ kəm-ˈpəl-shən \

**Definition of _compulsion_**

**1a:** an act of compelling; tried to get them to cooperate without using _compulsion_ **:** the state of being compelled; He was acting under _compulsion_.

 **b:** a force that compels

 **2:** an irresistible persistent impulse to perform an act (such as excessive hand washing); her _compulsion_ to repeatedly check and recheck the stove to be certain that it is turned off _also_ **:** the act itself; Gambling is a _compulsion_ with him.

* * *

The trunk slams shut, and I shift in my seat, looking around. Other than the day he brought me here, I’ve never been inside a cop car before. I’m sitting in the front seat this time, and it is very different up here. I almost would rather be in the back, although I can’t explain why.

Maybe because it’s safer back there, with a screen of metal between me and him.

No. Safety isn’t real. It’s all an illusion.

My feet are tucked under me, and the comforter from the bed is huge and bulky but warm.

Kylo climbs into the driver’s seat with a long sigh and starts the engine. He pulls on his seat belt and adjusts the rearview mirror just slightly while I watch.

He glances over to me and asks if I’ve buckled my seat belt.

Is he fucking serious? He wants me buckling up for _safety_?

I shake my head. My teeth are still chattering.

“This car doesn’t budge until that seat belt is on,” he tells me sternly. “I’ve seen some shit on the job. Shit that would turn your stomach from people not wearing their seat belts.”

There’s a dead fucking body wrapped in a tarp in the fucking trunk, and I’m coming down from my very first ever high on fucking heroin and he’s worried about seat belts?

Yeah. Let that sink in for a minute.

Still, I won’t argue with him, not after he killed the guy for me. He cranks up the heat and I shuffle out of the blanket and buckle up.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, before backing out of the garage.

He eyes my bare feet as he drives. My toes curl and stretch under the delicious warmth of hot air blowing over my feet.

“We should get you some shoes.”

I haven’t worn shoes since the day he took me and ripped mine off right before he…right before…

I have no idea what happened to my old clothes, I realize.

I wonder what happened to my old life. My shop. My little apartment. I used to have things. Not a ton of things, but things that made me Rey. A few pictures, a few odd homey things. A throw pillow Rose gave me as an apology gift right before she told me she had big news and was eloping.

I feel strangely numb as I think about those things.

Rose left me and I was annoyed about it. Disappointed. But she didn’t have a very happy ending, so maybe I should let it go.

That old life doesn’t belong to me anymore. I don’t think it ever will again.

A loud sob bubbles up from nowhere, then another.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Kylo looks worried, which can’t be right since the guy’s a psychopathic monster.

I can’t tell him. Can I?

How do I explain I’m pissed off and sad? He stole my life and traded it for something so…horribly different than what I’d planned for myself? How do I even start to explain that?

I can’t stop the hot tears from streaming down my face. I’m bawling and I can’t stop, not even if Kylo threatens to put me in the ground next to Rose, even though he doesn’t, and that thought just makes me cry harder.

He’s driving and giving me the side-eye, and I don’t understand how he can even ask me what is fucking wrong.

“Are you…are you hungry? Is that it? You missed dinner…” he mutters, checking the time on the digital clock on the dashboard.

I missed dinner? Like that was _my_ fault?

I think about _why_ I missed fucking dinner. Because I was passed out cold from getting roughed up and doing drugs I didn’t want to do and being blowtorched on the arm for stepping across the boundary on my ankle monitoring bracelet. And then, after waking up from a pretty rough couple hours of getting the shit beat out of me, I got groped by some non-hygienic asshole named Teedo. And then I had to manipulate Kylo into killing said asshole…and now we are on our way to dispose of the asshole's body while our living room waits for us, covered in blood and brains and little shards of skull.

Oh, that’s going to be a real treat to come home to. I can’t fucking wait.

It’s too much.

I shake my head and tears stream down my face. My chest shudders and I try to collect myself.

But then Kylo takes us through a McDonald’s drive-thru and I really lose my shit. I cannot remember when I last ate something that wasn’t prepared by Kylo himself. I can’t even remember what I ate the day he took me.

I don’t remember what fast food tastes like.

Don’t get me wrong. Kylo is a good cook, and he actually feeds us pretty healthy shit. But sometimes a girl needs a big, greasy hamburger. My jaw tingles as saliva creeps in at the thought of a burger.

“Whaddaya want for dinner, then?” he asks in this long-suffering tone that tells me I’m pushing my luck with the waterworks.

I snivel and look at the menu. I cannot remember the last time I read something that wasn't on Kylo’s television or the lube bottle in the front bedroom on the nightstand.

“Um.” Sniff. “A-a-ah,” I sniff again trying to pull it together. “Double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate shake? And an order of McNuggets with honey dipping sauce? A ten-piece,” I ramble off.

He lifts a brow but waits while the speaker repeats my order back to us. He adds a Big Mac and Coke to the order and pulls around to the window while I scrub my tears away with the corner of the blanket.

I am so fucking excited for a cheeseburger, it doesn’t even occur to me to ask the lady at the register for help. To try to open the passenger door and make a run for it.

How fucked up is that?

Kylo passes the bags of our food over to me, and I dig out his Big Mac. The scent of fry grease and melted cheese hits my nose and I almost start crying again, but I don’t.

I hand him his burger and put the straws in our drinks and fish out a few French fries from the bag. I’m saving my burger until the last possible second, drawing out the anticipation. I might not ever get another one.

I eat a few crispy, salty fries – they are so delicious – and I notice Kylo eying them with a little interest, and I cannot fucking believe I’m doing it, but he did kill Teedo and he bought me a burger and McNuggets and a shake, too.

“Want some?” I ask.

He nods, keeping his eyes on the road, so I hold a few fries up for him. He's got his Big Mac in one hand and is steering with the other.

"Careful. They're hot." I hold them close enough for him to pull them into his mouth with his lips and teeth while he drives.

He turns on the radio-radio, not the police radio, and again this is something I haven’t done for so long – listen to music – I almost lose it.

Some new song I’ve never heard before comes on and I nibble on a few more fries.

But then Kylo casually mentions around a mouthful of Big Mac that we are going to be driving for a while, so I dig into my burger and take a bite.

And it’s almost better than heroin.

Almost.

The burger disappears surprisingly quickly, and while I’m glad to have the McNuggets, I half wish I had another burger instead.

Still, I finish off all but two of the nuggets, which I offer to Kylo. He shakes his head and mutters something about a chemical shit-storm, so I eat them.

He’s paying more attention to the road, now, as we make our way up into the hills, onto Forest Service roads that lead away from civilization and closer to Teedo’s final resting place. Kylo seems to have somewhere specific in mind.

I’m really full now and getting sleepy. I know I promised I’d help Kylo, but I’m not sure how helpful I’ll be burying a body. I don’t have shoes or a jacket or any real muscle for hard labor.

“You forgot a shovel,” I tell him as it occurs to me.

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be able to dig through the hard frost very easily. I’ll just dump him off somewhere,” Kylo replies.

“Where are we going?” I murmur curiously. I’ve only seen trees for the last forty minutes and the dirt road is getting progressively worse with potholes.

Kylo mutters, “Bear country.”

I perk up at that.

“Aren’t they hibernating?” I ask. I’m a city girl, and I don’t know shit about forests or bears, but I’ve seen cartoons. And it _is_ winter.

Kylo shrugs.

“Something will eat him. If not a bear, then there are plenty of other little critters in the woods.”

“What if someone…finds his body?”

“Well, they won’t find much,” Kylo grunts, turning onto an even more rugged, overgrown road on a slight incline. “Not by the time the animals get to him. Nobody comes out this way.”

I don’t ask him how he knows that.

“Plus, we are a couple of counties away from the City, and Teedo won’t have anyone looking for him…so if someone found him, he’d never be identified.”

Somehow that’s more horrible than burying a body in the backyard.

But it’s Teedo, so I don’t feel as bad as I probably should.

It’s hard to doze over the bumps and rough road, but eventually, we seem to reach a point Kylo feels is a good place to leave the body.

He puts the car in park and leaves the engine running, which I am grateful for since the heater stays on and I stay toasty.

Until Kylo comes around to my side of the car and opens the passenger door.

“Come here. We need to give Teedo a proper send-off.”

What? The fuck? Is he fucking serious?

I unbuckle my seat belt, loathe to leave the warm car. I hold the comforter and Kylo picks me up and carries me bridal-style to the back of the car, sitting me on the trunk. I watch him return to the driver’s side and turn off the engine, leaving the headlights on.

He comes back around to me and pulls the edges of the blanket tight around my shoulders.

He has this look on his face, and I’m wondering how me sitting on the lid of the trunk is going to give Teedo a proper send-off. And then it hits me.

My lie.

Kylo’s eyes glitter black like the hard frost covering the tall grasses and shrubs all around. He caresses the crook of his finger along my cheek.

Suddenly every ache and pain I earned that day revives with throbbing alacrity.

“…now, what exactly did that little piece of shit say he was going to do to you?” Kylo breathes, looking just past me, off into the distance, in apparent reverie.

I swallow and try desperately to remember the details of my lie. I whisper, “Um. I think it was…like…fucking my little _panocha_ over my dead _Papi's_ corpse?”

Kylo hums in agreement, standing between my knees, nudging apart my feet propped on the bumper.

A shiver of dread compounds my other shivers from the cold. It’s freezing, and I don’t want to have sex out here in the middle of bear country over a dead body.

I don’t know if I even can have sex right now. My whole lower half received a pretty thorough pounding earlier.

Kylo doesn’t seem to care and I really don’t have it in me to fight him. He leans over me, huge and beastlike in the semi-dark.

He pushes under the blanket and slides my dress up, slowly, almost reverently, then brushes a warm palm along the inside of my thigh. His hair tickles my neck and I feel him kissing my cheek and ear.

“…open up for me, baby,” he mutters against the bite wound on my neck.

I reluctantly part my thighs, and he presses closer. I feel the sweep of a hot, wet tongue over the pulse point at my throat. Kylo is warm and I loosen my grip on the blanket to press my hands over his leather jacket, wondering if I can push them inside and get warmer.

He kisses me so gently I wonder if it’s real. He tastes like Coke and cold night air.

His hand moves further under the skirt of my dress and he deepens his kiss. I try not to gasp as he strokes over a few more tender, bruised spots.

“You asked me what’s a _panocha_? You remember?” he murmurs quietly. I swallow and nod against him, too nervous to speak and break the weird tension.

I know damn well what it is. I grew up in the hood. I know all the swears and words for genitalia in about seven different languages.

He kisses me again and pulls me a little closer, wrapping the edges of the blanket to either side, placing my hands so I’m holding the corners on his shoulders, creating a little tent just for us.

His mouth moves over mine, tenderly, slowly, and my blood starts humming in my veins. It feels good.

His finger slides against my pussy and I gasp. I’m still sore from earlier, but he’s touching me _sooo_ delicately, so soft, like a butterfly’s wings. A murmur escapes my throat before I can stop it.

I wonder when he’s going to do more, but he just kisses me and touches me, and we sit like this for a few minutes until I lean into him and kiss him back.

This reminds me of the past few weeks. Before I tried to escape this morning.

Because he really does know what to do in bed. He _knows_ how to have sex.

I can feel myself softening, melting, yielding. Forgetting what he did today and remembering what he’s capable of. Recalling the _other_ , very pleasurable things he’s done.

His breath fans over my neck, and he nibbles on my earlobe.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Kylo asks breathing hotly in my ear. “How it’s going to be your _Papi_ fucking your little _panocha_ over his bloody corpse, instead?”

Well, since I made that part up, I don’t know if the joke is really on Teedo or me, but either way, I really don’t want to think about it. And I am definitely never telling him I lied. I might be dumb, but I’m not stupid.

I scoot closer and kiss him again, instead of answering. He pushes his tongue into my mouth with a soft groan, sweeping his hands up to gently cup over my breasts, rubbing his thumbs over my tightly-peaked nipples.

“You cold, baby girl?” he croons.

“Yes,” I whisper. Maybe we can finish this in the back of the car. Teedo is, like, right under me. It’s creepy.

But Kylo simply shoves me back until I sprawl over the trunk. He pulls my legs open and unzips his pants. I can feel the dewy heat of him prodding against me. I feel his fingers spread the lips of my pussy so he can nudge inside, and it only stings a little.

I’m not as wet as I could be and Kylo seems to realize this as he starts thumbing my clit. I whimper. That feels good.

“Let me in, honey.”

I open my legs wider, and he pushes in further, gripping my hips.

“Good girl.” He takes one of my hands and presses it between us. I can feel him, feel where he’s sliding into me. It’s…oddly sexy. “Touch yourself, baby.”

I try to, try to concentrate, but I’m cold and there's a dead body underneath me with half its head blown off…

“Never mind,” Kylo rumbles, pulling out and bending over me intently. Oh no. What?

Oh, wait. _Yes_. 

I lift my hips eagerly to meet him and suddenly everything fades away at the exquisite caress of his lips.

His tongue slides against me, and my head falls back onto the rear windshield. He props my calves over each shoulder, holding me in place while he sucks and strokes until I feel a surge of wet desire where his mouth meets my sensitive flesh.

His nose bumps rhythmically at my clit and I groan at the delicious pressure of his mouth and tongue until I’m close to losing my mind, gripping his soft hair and grinding against him as best I can. It doesn't take long at all.

“That’s better,” he grunts, shifting so my legs fall into the crooks of his arms and he's pressing into me again. Much easier now, and I moan. His lips curl into a snarl and he shoves more rudely, jolting my head against the hard glass behind me. I cry out.

His hands cup around my shoulders and he thrusts and pulls me down at the same time, ramming harder until I’m sobbing and moaning and seeking that elusive _thing_ that happens sometimes when he’s fucking me…

He feels it too and bends to kiss me rapaciously, his tongue stroking mine as his hot dick spears between my thighs.

I can taste my pussy on his firm, insistent lips, and it does something to me, and all of a sudden I just want to feel more…

Kylo grins against my mouth and hisses, “Stay with me, baby...keep going...fuck you’re so _hot_ , getting so _wet_ …you sick little bitch, you _like_ this don’t you?”

I groan and pull him closer, I need just a little more, harder…just like that… _oh_ …

“…fuckin’ depraved…” he growls, but he sounds happy about it and he’s hitting that _spot_ , that really _good_ spot inside me and my hips twist against him because it’s happening this time, I can tell, I can feel it.

I moan, "Oh, God, oh, fuck!"

Kylo pants harsh and animal-like against me, “Disgusting little pervert, that’s what you are…sick… shameless fuckin’ slut…”

...and that filthy-dirty bliss grips me over and over, a tight fist of ecstasy squeezing me and him and making me _come, oh, fuck, yes, I'm coming I'm coming…_

"Oh, God, _oh!_ " I tense as my body takes over and spasms in hard contractions, and Kylo jerks roughly against me, pumping at his own rhythm now, harder and faster until he joins me on a ragged groan that sounds like he’s dying.

His huge body quivers against mine for a minute before he pulls out. He tucks himself back into place and zips his pants while I sprawl on his car and try to catch my breath, cum dripping out of me onto the blanket.

His breath puffs in the chilly air as he stares down at me and lifts his chin. “Say bye-bye to Teedo, baby.”

I glance to the trunk, then back to him. “Bye, Teedo.”

The comedown wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but it still sucks to have to return to reality.

I am drowsing in our bed and he’s lying next to me, naked. He smells good, fresh out of the shower, and I realize it is late.

We didn’t get home until almost sunrise since he stopped at Wal-Mart for cleaning supplies on the way back.

When he went into the store, he put me in the back seat, telling me to get some sleep, and I obeyed. I was exhausted.

Besides, it’s not like I could have escaped. I was locked in the back of a police car and wearing an ankle monitoring bracelet. Who would have believed me if I screamed for help?

Not a soul.

When he came back out to the car, he mentioned he picked up a few things for me. Some shoes, and another pair of leggings, and a sweater. A bright green sweater that I put on right away. I didn't even take the tag off, first. 

I dozed again until we got home, and then…because I was so good and helpful and didn’t give him any trouble at all with Teedo, he let me have a shower and gave me another syringe full of that _stuff._ This time when he gave it to me, he wasn’t pissed off, so he didn’t need to punish me, and he just let me sleep, and it was amazing.

I wake up feeling like a new woman. It’s the middle of the day. I slept through breakfast. We both slept through, I think. Kylo watches me.

I stretch, gingerly, because my whole body hurts.

My arm throbs from the blow torch burn and the rest of me feels like I’ve been stretched on the rack. My joints ache and my tongue stings and my jaw is sore.

And my mouth is dry as motherfucking cotton.

“Water?” I rasp. My throat hurts, and I can’t figure out why.

Kylo leans back and reaches for a glass of water on the nightstand, sitting me up and helping me drink it so I don’t spill all over the bed. My hands are a bit shaky.

I gulp it down, and I feel much better, but weird, kind of hollow. I realize it’s the lack of heroin in my system making me feel so empty.

Kylo calls in sick from work again. He called in sick yesterday too, so he could wait nearby for me to try to escape. 

But today he needs to take care of the Teedo mess, and he gives me another treat. This time I stretch out my arm eagerly and let him make another little hole with the needle and then I lie on the sofa, which he’d pushed to the other side of the room. I watch him.

He’s only wearing jeans and gloves, no shirt, and I’m struck once again at his physical build, the leashed power in those rippling muscles. 

I spend most of the day sleeping and high while he rips up the living room carpet and finishes cleaning the remainder of Teedo from the walls and floors.

He’s really quite something, all psychopathic tendencies aside.

“Can you believe we've had fucking hardwood floors underneath this carpet all this time?” I hear him mutter in amazement.

I doze.

* * *


	8. Contention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, for the love of God, check the updated tags, and be advised things may be getting rather...brutal from here on out.
> 
> [#1 Crush, Garbage](https://open.spotify.com/track/0P6USuYzHP8GdAyNKLkTZi?si=OEss7R0zQHK-UeFPCFh3RA)

# Chapter Eight – Contention

con·ten·tion | \ kən-ˈten(t)-shən \

**Definition of _contention_**

**1:** a point advanced or maintained in a debate or argument; It is his _contention_ that allowing a casino to be built would not be in the best interests of the city.

 **2:** an act or instance of contending; He has taken himself out of _contention_ for the directorship.

 **3:** RIVALRY, COMPETITION

* * *

Turns out heroin makes a rather fantastic love potion.

And just like every movie or book you’ve ever read, when a love potion is introduced and reality inevitably intrudes, the illusion ends. Rather badly.

Things don’t turn out so great when the supplier of said potion begins to restrict the potion supply and affections begin to wane.

It’s been months, and I greet Kylo enthusiastically every night when he gets home from work. I’m still wearing the stupid ankle monitoring bracelet, but I haven’t stepped out of line _once_ since Game Night.

Getting Kylo to kill Teedo for me marked a real turning point in our relationship.

I mean, _obviously,_ the _other_ thing that happened that day – my rather unconventional initiation into my new _religion_ – plays a large role in my current predicament.

Obviously, yeah.

I think about it all the damn time, actually. And with increasing paranoia.

I think Kylo is starting to pick up on the fact I might be more than a little in love with heroin. I think he’s regretting ever giving it to me in the first place.

I think he’s…jealous of it.

And lately, Kylo’s been mentioning how I should cut back or quit. He keeps bringing up us having kids, and I just can’t think about any of that. Part of me knows I need to stop this insanity eventually, that it’s slowly killing me, but I’m not ready, yet.

I’m having a harder and harder time concealing my desperation for him not to take it away.

So, I’m doing everything I can to maintain normalcy in this bizarre existence, even though all of it is so fucking dysfunctional.

I’m doing more and more to keep him happy, doing whatever he wants and letting him do stuff to me, too. I don’t care. He thinks we are in love, and maybe we are, who am I to know any better?

Rose used to talk about the suburbs, the happy little couples and their happy little fronts, and how what happens behind closed doors is very different from what people present to the world.

Shit, for all I know, every neighbor on this cul-de-sac is a pathetic smackhead being held captive by a murderous psychopath and just doing her best to survive another day.

And while I am almost certain Kylo has absolutely zero ability to feel any kind of real human affection, his own twisted brand of it has been pleasant enough, so long as I continue to be his compliant little fucktoy, so long as I play mommy to his daddy and let him bring home the bacon.

And by bacon, I mean smack.

Right now? Right now, I need him, can’t survive without him. I need him for one thing, the only thing that makes me happy and keeps me calm and helps me deal with the morally dubious reality that I’ve set up house with a dirty cop serial killer who is also a rather powerful and dangerous drug dealer, apparently.

We do have a semblance of a home, now. Although it could be nicer.

If you’ve ever been inside a drug dealer’s house, you might notice a conspicuous lack of homey comforts. Things like furniture and decorations tend to be utilitarian if they exist at all. It’s all about priorities, right?

Most dealers spend their time working the streets, and Kylo is no exception. And in his case, I think the idea of decorating and personalizing the space is a rather foreign concept.

But one of these days I’m going to talk him into redoing the house, maybe getting some nicer stuff, refinishing the gorgeous hardwood floors running through most of the house.

I just don’t have any energy and he’s busy anyway.

When he isn’t doing _actual_ police work, which I still can’t even imagine, to be honest, Kylo spends his days driving around selling drugs.

We’ve settled into a routine that mimics the most banal of sitcoms. Kylo has been on a real _Charles in Charge_ kick lately, which is absurd, but whatever.

I don’t give two wild fucks what we watch, so long as I’m shot up with the best of the best stuff Kylo can get his hands on.

And he can get his hands on some pretty damn good shit.

He assures me it is the highest-grade, top-quality H, the very best available, and I feel somewhat relieved. I know they cut heroin with laundry detergent or powdered milk or rat poison or whatever, but supposedly my stuff is the _good_ stuff.

That other stuff, that low-grade black tar shit, is for desperate little punks who wouldn’t know the difference anyhow.

That’s what Kylo tells me.

I believe him.

But because it’s so pure? It packs a punch. So, when I ask for more because I’ve built up some resistance to the effects, Kylo is stingy as fuck about it.

Kylo wants me to cut back, and logically I know it makes sense, even though he thinks I’m worse off than I really am.

I mean. I’m not really hooked-hooked. I can stop whenever. I just don’t want to right now.

Besides, I wasn’t really expecting this little deviation to interfere with my grand scheme of gaining Kylo’s trust and killing him and escaping. Plans change. And these days my plans constantly evolve, shifting like desert sands, as I consider how to monopolize on what Kylo can do for me before I finish him off.

I mean. I wouldn’t be sad to get rid of him _and_ end up with a shitload of cash at the end of all this. And if I can get my hands on a big enough stash, I can wean myself off the drugs slowly. Preferably on a tropical beach.

From the way he’s been talking, I feel like Kylo's got money and drugs stashed away somewhere. Not here at the house, that would be idiotic, and Kylo’s no fool. But somewhere. 

And he told me he has a Plan, a big one. If he can pull it off, he says we’ll be set for life.

He's waiting for the right time, so, in the meantime, I spend my days watching TV or sleeping or reading the paperback novels he picks up for me from time-to-time or high and wondering what I’m going to do with my life and how I’m going to kill him or if I even want to anymore.

We haven’t had company since Game Night, so I haven’t had an opportunity to take out another one of his buddies, yet. I figure if Kylo gets crazy-jealous enough, though, he could take on at least three of those guys single-handed. But I can’t risk him getting killed, too, or anyone left alive would murder me on the spot.

I need to think about it. Later.

I look at the puny hit he’s left me for the day, sitting next to a mud-colored prenatal vitamin that I dutifully swallow because it probably doesn’t hurt. I feel like Kylo can tell I’m lying when I say I took my vitamin, but I really didn't. 

Besides, Kylo is so good to me, I think fondly. The now-familiar sting in my arm melts into a floaty-flying sensation of the first rush.

Kylo. He gives me everything. A place to live, food, water, light.

I will even have a job of sorts, so I can help him make money for us.

That’s right. He’s working on something big. Something important.

He tells me when we are done with this Big Thing, we’ll be set. That’s what he says, we’ll be _set_. We can start over, leave this crummy, boring town and go anywhere we want.

He still wants kids and I don’t really care anymore.

Someday we might have a family, which would be okay, I guess. Rose told him I always wanted one, and she wasn’t wrong. Someday that might be nice.

But, for now, I pretty much live for one purpose.

I stumble out to the living room and flop onto the couch so I can wait like a good girl until he comes home and brings me my next treat.

The walls and door and floors and ceiling spin and flex around me.

I stare at the door until the spinning stops, knowing I can’t ever, ever go outside or leave him, or he says he will find me and make me wish I was dead.

And I don’t want to die. Not when I have something to live for.

He was right when he said I’d be converted.

He was right when he promised I would bow down and worship him every night. I will. I do. I would crawl naked on my hands and knees over broken glass and rusty nails to get to him.

To what he brings home every night.

My little _treat_.

My breaths and thoughts synchronize, and I stare unblinking at the door, waiting.

I need it.

Inhale.

I _need_ it.

Exhale.

I need it so fucking much.

Inhale, exhale. _Breathe_.

He’ll be home soon.

_Just a little while longer. A little longer, a little bit longer, little longer whatifhedoesn’tcomehome?_

My breathing is all fucked up and I can’t catch my fucking breath. My leg won’t stop bouncing up and down, agitation and worry vibrating through me as I try not to consider the impossible.

If he doesn’t come home soon, I’m going to lose it.

…I can’t go outside, not ever ever ever. No. I can’t ever, ever leave.

_I need it IneeditIneeditneeditneedit_

If I don’t get it…I’ll die. Tears spring into my eyes at the thought of dying without having one last taste…

I need it.

I can feel the need.

The need crawls under my skin like cockroaches. I can feel their tiny little legs and wings and antennae brushing against the fine hairs on my arms and _where_ is he?

They’ll start biting soon if I don’t get what I need.

I rub the long sleeves of my shirt over my arms like a person who is cold. I am _not_ cold, but I am shivering and itchy and it hurts to think. It hurts to breathe.

_Where is he?_

Panic skitters over my arms and I’d claw and scratch if I could, but Kylo doesn’t like it when I do that, and if I upset him or make him mad, he’ll take it away and I can’t –

I try to concentrate. I can hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears and I vaguely wonder if I am going to have a heart attack.

No. I’m fine. I’m okay. Every kid who ever lived through a public-school anti-drug campaign is taught drugs will kill them. But that’s just scare-tactic bullshit spouted by losers who don’t want to expand their minds and become what they are meant to be.

They don’t _know_. They weren’t talking about my stuff. I only use the best of the best. Kylo wouldn’t give me the stuff that kills. Not that black tar filth.

I’m fine. I’m okay.

I just need Kylo to get here soon.

I look at the plate of food he left for me. I haven’t touched it, don’t want to, not hungry.

He will probably say something about it when he gets home. He says I’m getting too skinny and it isn’t healthy, and I need to eat more.

Kylo tries to make me eat sometimes, but then I get sick and throw it all up.

I stare at the door and wait.

“When was the last time you used? First thing this morning? Or did you wait like I told you to?” he grunts, arms around me to help me chop tomatoes.

He _finally_ got home, a half-hour late because he stopped at Wal-Mart to pick up toilet paper and toothpaste and a fucking baby blanket of all things. I’m nearly jumping out of my own skin with excitement and irritation by the time I hear the rattle of keys at the back door.

He noticed right off I didn’t eat today, and he insists we have dinner before I get my _thing_. So, I'm helping to cook, and maybe speed things along.

“Morning,” I snap rather waspishly. “You didn’t leave me hardly any, either. It was barely enough to feel anything.”

“Baby, we talked about this. You need to cut back.”

He’s still hell-bent on the kid thing, if that goddamned baby blanket is any indication.

We’ve had so much unprotected sex, it’s unbelievable he hasn’t knocked me up yet. I think I might be barren, or maybe it's his fault, although heaven forbid I mention _that_ idea. Even under the influence of hard drugs, I know better than to suggest he might be sterile.

But, God, can you imagine what our poor baby would have to deal with? A junkie for a mother and a monster for a father?

I still get my period, although it’s just been light spotting lately. My period is probably just being weird because of everything my body’s been through.

“I…don’t even know if I _can_ get pregnant,” I remind him. I’m surly. I don’t want to wait for dinner.

He’s grown very still behind me, standing at the kitchen counter. I want to move the conversation along so we can address the only thing I care about. He starts kissing the side of my neck, and I try to focus on chopping tomatoes and not slicing off a finger.

Fuck. He’s always fucking smothering me, and I want to shrug him off. My hands are fucking shaking, not that he fucking cares. I need my shit.

“Where’s my stuff?” I ask, impatient to get on with it.

He pauses again, going very still, and my instincts flare up to full alert. I turn in his arms, leaning back against the counter. His hands rest gently on my shoulders.

He’s looking down his nose at me, and he’s gone all sullen and hard to read. _Dammit_.

I’m still holding the knife as understanding dawns.

 _No. Nonono fucking way. Not now. I’m not ready_.

“Where is it?” I ask again, an edge of sharp panic tinging my voice.

“Not _tonight_.” He narrows his eyes and suddenly I am outraged. I’ve been waiting all fucking day.

“What do you mean? Not tonight? Why not?” My voice is getting louder, but I can’t seem to control it.

“Because. I think you’re done, that’s why.”

Done? Like? Just quitting cold turkey? Tonight? Now? No.

Fuck that noise. “No! _What?! No._ You fucking asshole! You’re not even gonna give me time to…?”

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth.” Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, and I should try to be careful, but I don’t fucking care.

“Ha! Watch yours!” I bellow. I’m pissed. This is not okay. I need my shit, and now what am I supposed to do?

“Watch your fucking sass, Rey, or I’m gonna put your lights out. I mean it,” he snarls. 

My hand lashes out before I can stop myself and he dodges in the nick of time, but not quite quick enough. I watch as a thin line of red appears on his forehead and cheek and I belatedly realize I just attacked him.

_Oh, shit. I probably didn’t think that though._

Have you ever just done something so incredibly stupid you can only stare at the results and gape instead of running for it? It’s like the time I lit a firecracker, and instead of running as soon as the fuse sparked, I just stood there and let it blow up in my face. I'm lucky it didn't kill me, not that it matters now.

His nostrils flare and the grip on my arms goes from gentle to vicious in point-three seconds. And then he head-butts me and everything goes black.

I think only a few minutes pass because when I wake, I am smashed against the kitchen floor and my head feels like it is splitting open. There’s blood all over the place and he’s lying on top of me.

I can see the edge of the knife out of the corner of my eye and my stomach clenches.

“Wake up, baby girl,” he coos, shaking my head by a fistful of hair. “You almost took my eye out, bitch. I’m _so_ going to make you pay for that.”

He did make sure I paid for it. And by the time he was done making sure, I was positive I would never, ever lash out at him again.

That was the day I quit using heroin, and I spent the next two weeks handcuffed to the bed in the front bedroom again.

He had to cuff me facedown this time, because of what he’d done to my back. The scars had to heal, and he was real worried about infection for a while.

That pain did nothing to distract from the withdrawals, though.

Anyone who says heroin withdrawals aren’t that bad can fuck right off.

He left me alone for most of it, except to clean up my vomit and make sure I was hydrated and even going so far as to make homemade bone broth from scratch and feed me spoonfuls of it every few hours those first few days, telling me dehydration was the biggest concern with detox.

I begged him to kill me and even tried to taunt him into it, but he would just shake his head and mutter, “Nobody leaves me until I say.”

He didn't kill me, much to my annoyance, but every time I noticed the butterfly bandages over his eyebrow and on his cheek, it made me feel a tiny bit better.

I had a lot of time to think things through.

At one point I realized he’d not been to work for a while, and he told me he’d taken an extended leave of absence.

I asked him if he still had "big plans," and he surprisingly replied with a, “Yeah, honey. Big plans. Just gotta wait until you’re all better, then you can help me. Then we’ll be set.”

I don’t like to think about those days.

But they are in the past, and Kylo told me I should let the past die.

I’m _trying_ to kill it, but it’s hard to do under the weight of hopeless apathy.

I don’t really have anything to live for anymore. 

Funny how all that can change in just a few short hours.

I’m home alone for the first time in weeks, my ankle monitoring bracelet in place again.

He has left me the run of the house now, except for the kitchen, per the old rules. I'm fine with it. 

Somehow, we both know I’m not planning on going anywhere.

He’s gone to the store, and I’ve promised for the umpteenth time I’m feeling much better.

I am. I mean. Relatively speaking.

I still kind of want to shoot up all the time, but with the poison finally out of my system, I know with all clarity how bad that would be. Kylo tells me the battle is all mental now and I have to fight myself from snapping at him to shut the fuck up. This is his fault.

I hear his car pull out of the driveway and I go into the bathroom. Maybe I’ll take a shower and kill some time until he gets back.

I strip out of my leggings and t-shirt and turn to view my back in the bathroom mirror. The sight greeting me is not pretty.

Cut into the flesh from shoulder to shoulder are the words that mark me as his.

I swallow an unexpected surge of bile at the sight. The cuts have scabbed over and will leave scars, but they are healing well.

I turn around and take a hard look at myself. My dark brown hair hangs in lank tangles past my shoulders. When he took me, it was a chin-length bob, just long enough to pull into three buns in a row down the back of my head. It’s much longer, now.

I pull my hair away and notice the faint bite marks marring the side of my neck beneath the marks from his belt, also faint, but there.

He choked me with it. I swallow as I remember.

It was after I’d sliced open his face in the kitchen. I don’t want to think about that.

My eyes drift to my collarbone and ribs and without the clouding influence of heroin, I can see what he means about me being too skinny.

In fact, except for the strange swelling under my belly button, I’m downright waifish. I press my hand against the lump, wondering why I’m so bloated.

Maybe I’m due for a really bad period. I haven’t had one for…since…I can’t remember.

Maybe it’s cancer or something.

My hipbones poke out and I catch a glimpse of the track marks disfiguring the insides of each arm. There are more on the left arm since I am right-handed. I run a longing finger over the obscene little bumps before returning my attention to the mirror.

My eyes are hollow pits, with deep circles of purple shadowing them. My lips are pale, my cheeks sunken, skin waxy and sallow.

I’m not very cute right now, and I wonder why Kylo still likes to fuck me. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he is just waiting for me to die so he can get a new pet.

Someone not all fucked up like me.

That thought doesn’t make me feel very good, and I don’t want to dwell on it.

I hear the back door slam and I jump in surprise. Kylo’s back already? Did he forget his wallet?

I listen and realize I’m hearing more than one set of footsteps thumping through the house.

My pulse kicks up a notch.

Kylo didn’t say anything about visitors.

Before I can reach for a towel to cover myself and run for the safety of our bedroom, the bathroom door opens. A handsome red-headed man stares me up and down with a surprised, supercilious lift of his brow.

“Well, well, well…what have we here?” he drawls. The modulated crispness of his accent and meticulous grooming of his hair and clothing contrast rather frighteningly with the manic fanaticism glowing in his cold blue eyes.

_He’s dangerous, Rey, and not in the way Kylo is._

If Kylo is violent and unpredictable, then this man with the slicked-back red hair is methodically cruel, his absolute control held ruthlessly in check by an icy calm that transcends anything I’ve ever encountered.

It’s terrifying.

Adrenaline starts pumping through me like diesel, a slow, steady stream of shaky, fiery panic. 

_Not safe. Not safe. Get the fuck out of here._

He’s blocking the exit, and his upper lip curls back. He knows I want to run, and I can’t.

I can’t run. I need to make a stand.

“Who the fuck are you?” I snap, glancing down at my clothes on the floor. I want to cover myself, but I know if I try to do it now, it will only draw attention to my nudity, my vulnerability.

He advances into the small room, his smirk transforming into a malevolent sneer. He mutters confidentially, “I’m here to make sure your boyfriend knows not to let his personal…interests…interfere with orders from his boss…Mr. Snoke.”

He’s telling me way too much, part of me realizes. That means he doesn’t intend for me to make it out of this alive.

“Who the fuck are _you_?” he rejoins crisply. I clench my teeth together.

The man holds his arctic gaze on me as he barks over his shoulder to the others, “Make sure you boys destroy _all_ Ren’s things so Snoke’s message gets across loud and clear.”

I try to muster some scrappy insolence, spitting, “Good thing Kylo doesn’t have much to destroy.”

He advances to stand behind me, and his eyes land on Kylo’s marks on my back. I cringe slightly as he sweeps my hair aside for a better look. Other than Kylo and Teedo’s very brief accost ages ago, I haven’t been touched by another human being for a very, very long time.

My stomach drops to my feet when the man with red hair whoops with laughter as he reads Kylo’s words, carved into me with all the rabid possessiveness of a furious child.

The man’s eyes meet mine in the mirror and he murmurs, “Oh? It seems _Kylo_ might have something of value, after all. How fortunate am I? To have stumbled across his _very_ favorite toy…”

By the time he comes home, I’m not sure I'm going to make it.

I’ve been lying semi-conscious on the floor for I don’t know how long. Time gets weird when you're being tortured. Every minute drags out and can feel like hours, even though logically I know they weren't here very long at all.

My left eye has nearly swollen shut, but I’m on my right side, so I can only see through the narrow slit.

I hear him come through the back door, the measured steps of his booted feet moving through the house.

My lips are both split and blood is crusting around my nose and pooling under my cheek. My throat is ruined from screaming. I’ve lost my voice. There’s no power behind it as I try to call out.

“Ben!” No sound comes forth, just bloody bubbles gurgling from my mouth.

I hear his long strides through the living room and down the hall. They halt abruptly, and I know he's found me huddled on the floor.

“…help,” I rasp. He’s not moving. I don’t know why, but I’m sure I look pretty bad.

Maybe not salvageable.

But I need him.

I watch the cautious approach of his boots and sense more than see him crouch next to me.

A large hand cups my face and turns my head.

“You alive, honey?”

I can’t see all that well, and I think I have less than minutes to warn him. It occurs to me this is the most important thing I will ever do. The most important words I will ever speak.

_I can do this._

_I can do this._

“Don’t leave me.”

He sighs, strangely calm. "Was it Hux?"

“Red hair…and…company…from…g-g-game…night…” I wheeze. I hope he understands what I mean, who I’m talking about. I think my rib is cracked. Maybe a couple. “...they…thought…I’d be…dead...want you to...try...”

I feel a sharp sting as he pulls the needle from my arm and I break into uncontrollable, bone-wracking shivers of relief and simultaneous _want_.

With the needle away, I’m stronger, but fading fast. I gasp, “Snoke…message…”

I need him to _listen_. I really really don’t want to die, and I think I’m close. If he gives up on me and goes off on some vengeance spree now, they'll be waiting for him and I'll die here.

“Help me...”

He’s very quiet. Very still.

A sudden, violent cramp unlike anything I’ve ever felt before lurches up and out of me and I vomit all over the floor, retching up an endless string of thick mucus, slimy with bile and other filth, a disgusting remnant of what they did.

Another surge hits harder, and this time daggers of pain rip through my belly.

I wonder briefly if Ben pulled a knife and is gutting me, expediting my death. Maybe he’s decided it will be easier to let me go and start anew.

But no, he’s holding me, gently turning me to the side so I can finish being sick.

I scream in silent agony as he inadvertently touches my back, beneath the half-healed cuts he’d made weeks ago.

He pulls his hand away, slippery with blood, and rolls me more, so he can view the new cuts made by the red-haired man.

I hear him whisper, “Hux was here,” and a shockwave trembles through him and into me.

Another blade of agony tears into my abdomen, and a hot, sticky gush floods between my legs.

“What…is happening?” I gasp helplessly, groping at him.

“Fuck.” Ben spits the word and shifts from a crouch to a kneel.

“Ben…what?” Waves of dizziness flow over me, and I’m losing the fight to stay awake.

_What is happening to me?_

He lifts me into his arms, and I can feel my consciousness fade. But not before I hear it. 

Something crunches under his boot, and I know what it is. The sound of finality, a breaking point.

A syringe loaded with enough horse to put me in the ground for good. _Hux_ left it there, stuck in my arm. All I had to do was push the plunger down.

But I didn’t.

And now, there’s no turning back.

My last thought before blacking out on a searing wave of pain is maybe I should have taken up Hux on his final offer after all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of authenticity, Kylo's words were written in the "Paterson" font, which I found online. A weird little touch I thought you'd enjoy...?


	9. Collusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder to the reader: This is a dark fic. 
> 
> Content warning: A few brief references to the gang rape and miscarriage from last chapter. I opted NOT to write fully detailed scenes for that but there will be brief references to it and a few details for the story's sake. Bear with me.
> 
> [Mirror In the Bathroom, The English Beat](https://open.spotify.com/track/3LUhdkixxrrqv3nfNfkINe?si=1O-5TquuQ1ShZTWEq9cqpg)

# Chapter Nine – Collusion

col·lu·sion | \ kə-ˈlü-zhən \

**Definition of _collusion_**

**:** secret agreement or cooperation especially for an illegal or deceitful purpose; acting in _collusion_ with the enemy

* * *

I understand, now. I understand why people go dark and do things that seem crazy and unjustified and irrational to normal citizens.

I remember pain, but it is a vague and hazy thing compared to what I know now.

I didn’t know I was pregnant. That hurt. Losing something I didn’t know I had, something precious and eternal.

But it hurt more to wait to die, knowing that vile piece of shit Hux had carved his name into me. I don’t belong to him.

I belong to one person, and that’s it. I’ve decided. And he belongs to me, too.

I asked Ben to burn the scars away, told him to take the blow torch to me again. He shook his head no and told me to rest, said I needed to sleep and heal and then, when I was better, I could most definitely help him annihilate those animals who attacked me.

I wonder if the irony is lost on him, but I don’t really care. He has promised not to leave me, swore he won’t go after them until I’m all better.

I believe him.

I sleep, but not peacefully.

When I sleep, I dream.

I remember the red-haired man the most. Hux.

He was the worst of them. By far.

I did try to fight him off. But if Kylo taught me anything, it is one thing. It is pointless to fight.

Hux doesn't give a shit that he is trespassing, that he will surely set into motion an unstoppable beast by violating something of Kylo’s. He simply grabs me by the hair and drags me to the front bedroom.

Adrenaline belatedly kicks in and I try to kick him in the balls. But I am so weak and pathetically easy to subdue.

He catches my foot and runs an appraising eye over me, landing significantly on my belly.

“You can fight. But if you do, I’ll cut that spawn out of you myself.”

_What?_

I stare at him blankly for a minute and don’t have time to process what he means because he’s pulling a wicked-looking knife and promising to give me set of scars to match Kylo’s.

I am standing in front of a door, and I’m wearing a fur coat.

The fur coat from the shop.

I rather miss my musty little shop and I wonder what happened to my crystal ball and the fringed shawl and the fur coat.

No wait.

I never had a fur coat. Did I?

Did you know they make fur coats out of little baby animals?

But Kylo’s talking, telling me not to worry about it, and his hand dips under my t-shirt and he tells me to get on my knees and maybe he’ll give me a little extra _something_ tonight.

I don’t waste an instant waiting.

I fade in and out of wakefulness as large gentle hands prod at me or sponge me down or coax me to drink from a straw, always with the promise of just a little more and then I can rest again.

_Hux was here._

He’d carved it into me after raping me quite brutally, not bothering to lube up as Kylo usually did, even though the lube bottle was right fucking there.

Then he’d invited his accomplices to use me as their own personal cum dumpster, forcing my mouth open and squeezing my nose and when I still refused to open, pinching my breasts until I screamed so they could all take turns.

I’d blacked out for a lot of it, but I could tell by the lingering aches in some very conspicuous places they’d done a very thorough job of using me.

The rest of the house was meticulously and methodically thrashed, as well. They smashed holes in the walls, ripped cupboard doors from hinges, shredded blinds and defiled every stick of furniture, even pissing and shitting everywhere. Animals. 

But Hux’s parting gift will be his ultimate downfall.

His pride will be the thing that ends him, his utter surety I wouldn’t be able to resist temptation.

He left me a loaded syringe and full use of my hands.

All I'd had to do was shoot it up and I’d be dead.

That’s what he’d been hoping for. That’s what he’d been counting on.

As it happens, that needle was the one sign Ben needed, the sole proof, the singular evidence to show him what he needed to see. He trusts me now.

I’d turned. And I needed him.

And he likes this, me needing him.

I can’t remember what happened after Ben picked me up and tried to put me to bed in our room, other than he _couldn’t_ put me in there because someone had pissed and shit all over it.

And the other bed had been covered in blood and filth from…everything else. And they’d destroyed the couch.

I ask him about it, a few days later. It still hurts to talk, but I am curious.

“Where are we?”

“Old lady Holdo’s until I get the house cleaned up. ‘Cross the street. She’s on vacation until the week after next, remember?”

I sort of recall him mentioning he was watering her plants or doing some neighborly favor.

He’s uncharacteristically sober, and I'm feeling more alert than I have for a while. We haven't spoken much about...everything, but he’s a cop. I am sure he was pretty well able to ascertain what had happened.

He says he doesn’t blame me, but he’s watching me with this dark expression, and I’m scared. He’s looking at me like I still might die.

“Ben? Will you tell me what happened? After you found me?” I am not scared to talk, now. He won’t kill me, not after putting in so much effort to keep me alive.

And I need to know.

“I came in through the back, had an armful of groceries. The table was smashed, and it smelled bad, like shit. At first, I wondered if you’d done it, but I didn’t get an alert from the ankle monitor. I figured the only people who it could have been would have been Hux and his thugs – the guys who came over that night? You told me it was 'company' and I knew. They’re just lackeys for Snoke, but not loyal. Helped me with my side dealing. But, somebody must have talked, turned the lot of them against me…Anyhow, when I found you on the floor you looked dead. There was a needle hangin’ out of your arm, and I didn’t realize you hadn’t…I thought you’d died, and then you tried to warn me.”

I’d called him Ben. Not Kylo.

“Ben is your real name,” I say softly. But he's lost in that day's memories, still talking. 

“You were still alive, and I couldn’t understand how that was possible. I noticed the needle was still loaded. I didn’t know what would keep you from doing it. Why you wouldn’t have done it. When just weeks before you were begging me to kill you. Why you wanted to live all of a sudden.”

“Well. The heroin withdrawals were pretty bad. I kinda did want to die. Then,” I remind him. It's true.

“You were just sort of like a robot after kicking the horse, and I kept waiting for you to finally tell me the good news, about the baby. Kind of hoping you would notice…”

I suddenly realize I’m not wearing the ankle monitor. I mention it. How it makes me feel...strangely alone.

"You're not alone," he tells me gruffly.

I am in a very weird headspace right now, wanting to reassure him. Nevertheless, I lift my hand to him. He takes it and I tell him sincerely, "Neither are you."

He nods, accepting my hand with a squeeze. We sit for a few minutes. 

“You don’t need that ankle bracelet anymore, honey. You and me, we gotta stick together, now. See this through. I know you won’t run off.”

I won’t. I need him to help me, and he needs…he just needs me, I think.

Maybe it’s weird and twisted and sick. But I’m starting to wonder if maybe he just needs someone to tell him what to do.

Maybe it makes me one of the bad guys. But. I think there's good in him, still. 

“I need to learn how to use a gun.”

He hums, deep in thought.

“Will you teach me?”

“Sure, honey. I’ll teach you everything I know.” A smile breaks over his face, and I forget he's a monster. Just for a minute.

It’s been another week, and I’m more conscious now. He’s moved me from Holdo’s spare bedroom back to the small bedroom at home.

“Why didn’t you do it?” he asks quietly, staring at the spot on my arm where Hux’s needle was.

I take another shaky bite of soup, still not totally able to feed myself very well, but willing to push it. I need to get better. Stronger.

“You said nobody leaves you until you say.” I don’t know what kind of an answer that is, not really. It doesn’t do a thing to convey how close I came to doing it, to ending everything.

But somehow, Kylo’s lesson was stronger than my will to die.

 _Nobody leaves me until I say_.

He nods.

We stare at each other for a moment, and it is another one of those surreal connections, like we can both see into each other’s heads for the briefest of eternities.

It reminds me very strongly of the day he took me, right before he _actually_ took me. Right in this very room.

The boards have been taken down off the windows, and sunlight streams in through the blinds. I’m lying on a different bed, a small one. Twin size, he calls it. The other bed and the nightstand and even the little bottle of lube are all in the past, destroyed.

“Why did you beg me not to leave you?” he asks. Something…human flickers behind his eyes.

“I didn’t want to die.” I tell him the honest truth, but not all of it.

“You chose to stay. With me. You didn’t have to.”

I nod. It’s true.

Before I can explore that line of thinking too far, I ask, “I heard another person’s voice. After…”

He nods. “My uncle. Luke.”

“…why?”

Ben’s mouth works into a pursing of lips and a puff of air. “He was a doctor, a long time ago. And later, a priest. I figured if he couldn’t help you, he could give you last rites. And…”

“And?” I prompt. He’s never spoken of religion before, other than in metaphorical context. It occurs to me the thing I am seeing in his eyes is grief. Pain.

How strange.

He clears his throat and takes my spoon in hand to feed me while the soup is still warm. “You didn’t know, did you?”

“Know what?”

“You were pregnant.”

“I didn’t,” I whisper. I want to apologize, I feel horribly guilty for some reason. Shame washes through me as I wonder. If I had fought harder…if…

My hand snaps to my belly. The hard lump under my belly button is gone, the flesh beneath soft. Empty.

I look at him.

“I thought…you would figure it out…months ago,” he mutters. “Why I wanted to get you off the horse…”

Ah. That explains the baby blanket and the constant nagging about my little _habit_.

I shake my head. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you’re not lying,” he assures me. “You were too surprised when it…when it happened.”

“I was getting my period for ages,” I remind him, trying to allay my guilt with justification.

“Yeah. Spotting. Common in the first trimester. I read about it online.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I finally ask.

“I thought…you’d figure it out on your own…I thought…I tried to hint.” He sounds guilty now, and this is another new thing to see on his face.

“How…far along? Do you think I was?”

His hollow eyes bore into mine. “Around five months, Luke thought.”

Oh. Five. That's...oh.

I don’t know what to think about that.

“Could you tell…if it was a boy or a girl?” I ask hesitantly.

His mouth moves around like he’s rolling the answer on the flat of his tongue before telling me.

Finally, he murmurs, “…a girl…”

“Are you sure?” I ask. I need to know.

He nods. He watches me. “I, um, tried to baptize her before Luke got here. Tried to remember how…from…church…”

I shake my head. I don’t know much about religion, but the thought of him trying to baptize our dead baby is enough to send a hot rush of anguish prickling behind my eyes.

“Why?” My voice is getting all shaky and scratchy. I’m not hungry anymore, but I take a bite of the soup he holds for me. I need to get better.

“Uh, so she doesn’t go to Limbo…” he mutters.

“What’s Limbo?” I ask, confused.

“It’s, um, like, the edge of Hell. Where unbaptized babies go. It’s…a Catholic thing…some Catholics believe…” I’ve never seen him fumble for an answer before.

“Where is she?” Hot tears are streaming down my face and I have no idea why or how to make it stop. "Where did you...put her?"

“With Rose. I thought…thought you’d be okay with that.”

I nod.

_Good._

And then it hits me all at once.

I had a daughter.

And now I don’t have anything.

No.

That’s not true.

A coal of burning rage ignites in the pit of my gut, a need for vengeance so overpowering, so deep, I am once again reminded why I fought so hard to survive.

I _do_ have something. I have rage. Pure and holy wrath.

I look at Ben.

I realize I also have _him_ , a real, live monster, if only I can figure out how to get him to heel… and maybe teach him how to attack on demand.

I spend most of the next month in the front bedroom, getting better. Except at night. Ben carries me to his new, big bed every night and holds me when the nightmares come.

I can finally get up on my own to use the bathroom, and thankfully I’ve finally stopped bleeding.

We talked about me being on birth control, and Ben brought me birth control pills, agreeing that until we settle things with Snoke we should not try to have kids.

Is this insane? Am I crazy for making long-term plans like this? With Ben Solo? The horrible monster?

Maybe.

Or maybe he was right all along. Maybe I just needed to come around to his way of thinking, get used to the idea.

Although some days, believe me, I still want to kill him. But more in the way of, “Oh! Ben bought milk instead of half-and-half again, and I could just murder him.”

He’s gone back to work part-time, which he says is part of his Plan.

When he isn’t working, he spends his spare time refinishing the floors and repairing fixtures and plastering and painting. The kitchen is getting a full remodel, and he brings home take out and magazines about remodeling and we sit together and pore over them like excited kids.

He also returned to work for Snoke, of all things.

When he told me he was doing it, I was shocked at first. Pissed off. But then he explained why, and I knew it was the right thing to do.

Snoke will never see us coming.

He finally told me why they’d come after him, and I discovered my earlier suspicions were right. He’s been skimming, skimming a lot, and upping prices and pocketing the difference, not to mention all the H he stole to feed my habit.

He’s got almost three-quarters of a million in cash stashed somewhere safe. And a full pound of pure, uncut Hosnian Prime, the very best, most sought-after H on the market.

I vacillate between thinking about the cash and the heroin in equal amounts, but I really should try to stop thinking about that heroin. I can’t do withdrawals again. And Ben’s plan is solid. If he can cut it and deal it on the side, or find a buyer who can take the whole brick off our hands, we will add a good-sized chunk of change to our stockpile of cash.

Everything is _ours_ , now. He refers to the house, the money, the Plan, all ours.

I’ve never had anything to share with anyone, and I asked him once what I’m bringing to the table. He just shook his head and told me not to be an idiot.

I just smiled back and told him thank you.

Sex for the first time after…does not go the way I thought it would.

It's been over a month since I've been able to get up and move around, taking more of a hand in housework and decorating. 

So far we have had this sort of unspoken agreement that I need to heal. There's no point in him breaking his toy all over again, not after all this trouble we went through to fix it. I'm struck with surprise at his patience, though. I know he can take whatever he wants and he is a horny guy who, up until I was attacked, was used to having sex on a regular basis.

So, this throws me off.

I don’t know how to handle it when he’s not on the constant verge of unleashing his temper on me. I'm getting used to it, but I still don’t mention he’s a serial killer or rapist because I don’t think he’d find that funny.

And I don’t think he sees himself that way.

Of course, I never thought of myself as the kind of girl who would get off less than twelve inches from a dead body, so…what do I know?

With the threat of me leaving him out of the way, his hostile possessiveness has all but vanished. He’s back to being the sweet, gentle person I’d glimpsed in the weeks before that day he blowtorched my arm. And got me hooked on H. And started me down the path of insanity that would bring us to where we are now.

But, insanity aside, he saved my life, did his best to do right by me and the baby as far as spiritual afterlife shit, and is spending an unbelievable amount of time and money to fix up the house so it doesn’t look like a drug lord bachelor lives here.

Half the kitchen is torn up, but the sink is in, and it’s gorgeous, a big farmhouse sink with an extra spout for boiling-hot water, and I adore it.

I can go in there anytime I want and have as much water as I want. And Ben brings home fancy tea for me to try, and I can have as much of that as I want, too.

We have a new dresser, and I have clothes. Cute clothes that aren't all from the clearance rack at Wal-Mart. 

I still prefer to hang out in our room when he’s at work, sleeping or reading or daydreaming. Going outside makes me nervous, although Ben assures me he trusts me.

Anyhow, I’m washing up a few random dishes from breakfast and lunch, since we’ve been living out of boxes until the cupboards are installed, when I hear Ben’s car in the driveway, way earlier than I’d been expecting.

Part of me jumps in panic. What if it isn’t him?

But then I remember what to do.

I hustle for the bedroom, for the gun in the top drawer. Ben showed me how to use it, although I’ve never shot it before.

I grab it and check it and turn off the safety, and then I hear him calling for me, and I realize it’s fine.

I put the gun away and run out the back door. To my startled and initial unpleasant surprise, Ben has a bound and gagged person cowering in front of him. A familiar set of eyes glares at me. 

Spikes.

“Hey, baby,” Ben says, kicking Spikes in the back of the knee so he drops like a rock. Spikes' kneecaps hitting the pavers of the walkway make a rather satisfying crunch. Ben grips his hair viciously, jerking his head so hard I hear his neck crack. “Is this one of the pieces of shit who attacked you?”

It is, as a matter of fact.

I see the panic in his eyes as he recognizes me. I probably look different now, nicer than I did the last couple times we met.

Spikes is trying to talk around the gag, and I don’t feel too sorry about marching up to punch him in the face. My knuckles sting, but I think I broke his nose.

“Yep. Thought so.” Ben takes that as confirmation and he twists the man’s arms into an unnatural contortion while his prisoner yowls in agony. “Baby, go get the keys to my toolshed and unlock it for me.”

I blink for one whole second before sprinting for Ben’s keys, hanging on a lanyard by the back door.

I was starting to think I’d never see this side of him again. But apparently Monster Ben is alive and well, just not pissed off at me for a change. It's kind of nice. 

I run back outside, and Ben is dragging Spikes to the back toolshed by his hair. Spikes has been rather efficiently zip-tied but is doing his very best to fight. I am having a really hard time mustering any sympathetic feelings for his predicament.

Having been on the receiving end of Ben’s particular brand of punishment, I have a feeling Spikes is about to enter a whole new world of agony.

I unlock the toolshed, speechless and rather stunned.

Ben hauls the man inside, casually slamming his head against the edge of the workbench hard enough to knock him out.

Spikes flops to the ground, out cold, and Ben flashes me a smile. “It’s our anniversary. So, I brought you a present.”

My mouth gapes open and closed. Ben reminds me of nothing so much as a proud little boy bringing home a garden snake to show his mother.

Part of me is in a bit of shock. Our anniversary? Like…really?

Another part of me is fighting a bit of terror at the sight of one of my attackers. I am not sure I was ready to see him so soon. 

My eyes fly from Spikes, motionless on the ground, to Ben’s snapping black gaze.

He’s watching me. Waiting. He prompts, “I…can kill him for you…if you want?” 

I take a deep breath. I nod. I do want.

“Yeah. I think you should kill him,” I agree. 

His beautifully-sculpted lips curl into a panty-dropping smile. “Okay, then.”

Spikes is starting to stir, and I figure I should leave Ben to it.

I’m not sure I want to stick around and watch what happens next…because that would be weird, right? 

Yeah. That would be weird. Ben is the psychopath, not me.

“Ben, I didn’t realize it was our anniversary…I’m going to go in and make dinner…while you…take care of this. What sounds good?”

He ponders for a minute. “Ummm. Bruschetta? And a salad?”

I was rather hoping for a big, fat, greasy lasagna from the freezer, but he _did_ just bring me a present.

"Okay. Sounds good."

“Oh! And I brought a bottle of wine. It’s in the car,” Ben tells me.

_Wine? Oh! Yes!_

I haven't had wine in forever, and I fucking love wine.

Not like how I love heroin. But a lot.

On impulse I run forward and jump into his arms, planting a wet kiss on his cheek. He catches me and spins in a circle with a surprised chuckle.

Ben hums and kisses my mouth with increasing enthusiasm, as I realize we haven’t…done it…for a really long time…

“Ben…?”

“Hmmm?” he growls.

“Don’t be _too_ long…”

Still holding me, he turns, and we stare down at Spikes for a few seconds.

Spikes is blinking awake, looking like a terrified little animal, and Ben mutters coldly, “Say bye-bye to D.J., baby.”

“Bye, D.J.”

Ben sets me down and I turn around, heading for the car to grab the wine before starting on dinner. But as I skip away, I overhear him say, “That little smack on the nose my girl gave ya is gonna be about the best thing you feel for the rest of the day...”

And later, when I hear the faint whine and squeal of Ben’s skill saw coming from the toolshed and a strangled scream abruptly cut off, I can only think of one thing.

_Now there are five._

He finishes up after a couple of hours, and thankfully bruschetta is one of those things you can prep ahead of time and then throw together at the last minute.

I’m on our new sofa, this one _not_ hideous and plaid, and I’m reading an article about cabinet hardware and munching on an apple when I hear the back door of the toolshed slam shut.

I grab the bath towel I have waiting and jump up and run outside before Ben comes in.

Because just like I knew he would be, he’s covered in blood. Head to toe. His face and hair are shiny with it.

I shake my head. “You can’t go inside like that.”

He stretches out his arms. “Like what? How am I supposed to clean up?”

“You look like you went to a Stephen King prom…” I chide. “Strip down. I’ll hose you off first.”

He rolls his eyes but obediently bends to unlace his boots and shucks out of his blood-soaked t-shirt and jeans while I get the garden hose.

I feel a strange warmth at the sight of him in his boxers. I haven’t seen him this naked for a while.

His teeth are chattering by the time I’m done spraying him down, and I realize it’s getting chilly. But there is no fucking way he’s coming inside dripping blood all over the refinished antique hardwood floors. Nope. Not on my watch.

“Fuck, hurry up. I’m starving,” he grunts.

I give him one last spritz, just to be petty, although I am pretty sure I got the worst of the blood off him. He shakes like a big, scruffy hound dog, his gorgeous hair slicked back to showcase his heavy brow and sculpted cheekbones. His ears stick out rather noticeably with his hair wet like this, and for some reason, it’s fucking sexy as hell.

“Shower before food,” I tell him, tossing a towel at his head.

His eyes spark with heat and he mutters, “Only if you come in with me.”

And there it is. Just like that.

I want him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really think you will like where this is heading. I hope. I'm sure I will hear about it in the comments, either way. Love ya!
> 
> Your kudos and comments are the only things keeping me going. Okay. Maybe that is a tad melodramatic. But I love them. And you.
> 
> P.S. Sorry for the smut teaser, but so much other stuff happened this chapter, I decided to wait so your little heads don't explode. 😘 Next chapter, kids. Promise...


	10. Exploitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut as promised, tears are an extra bonus. *winks*
> 
> [Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby, Cigarettes After Sex](https://open.spotify.com/track/3GhsBdS9ulPK3KCdwHRPhG?si=yjgk8AdtS468Cu6bzZf_Zg)

# 

# Chapter Ten – Exploitation

ex·ploi·ta·tion | \ ˌek-ˌsplȯi-ˈtā-shən \

**Definition of _exploitation_**

**:** an act or instance of exploiting; _exploitation_ of natural resources; _exploitation_ of immigrant laborers; clever _exploitation_ of the system

**  
exploit**

_verb_

ex·ploit | \ ik-ˈsplȯit, ˈek-ˌsplȯit \

 **exploited** ; **exploiting** ; **exploits**

**Definition of _exploit_ (Entry 2 of 2)**

_transitive verb_

**1:** to make productive use of:UTILIZE; _exploiting_ your talents; _exploit_ your opponent's weakness

 **2:** to make use of meanly or unfairly for one's own advantage

* * *

I’m nervous. Nervous as hell and having second thoughts.

Ben follows me into the house, prowling behind me like a bloodthirsty jaguar, primal hunger emanating from every pore of his skin. It’s making me jumpy, but I make my way through the house to the bathroom.

I still don’t like being naked in there, although maybe it won’t be so bad with Ben in here with me.

He’s just so big, he can take up all the space and maybe there will be no room to be afraid.

He follows me inside, and suddenly I’m not sure I want to go through with this.

I’m _very_ sure he wants to when he strips off his wet boxers and I get a good look at his dick.

Fuck. He really has a nice one.

He catches me peeking and grits out, “Get over here.”

Pink water trickles from his hair and down his chest.

He turns on the shower, and I let him help me strip out of my clothes. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

He told me right after, when I was getting better…he said it’s a good thing I have small tits so I don’t need a bra, because that would be a real hassle around my scars. I’ve filled out a bit since then. The bruises are gone, and my ribs no longer feel like they are stabbing me with every breath.

He runs his gaze over me and licks his chops, sweeping a possessive hand over the sensitive tip of my breast.

“Let’s have a look,” he orders brusquely, spinning me around. I can see him in the mirror, inspecting me.

I feel a damp finger trace the words between my shoulders. His words.

“I marked you up real good, didn’t I?” he mutters. The heat of his hand moves lower, hovering just over those _other_ marks. I still haven’t been able to talk him into burning them off me, but I think he will, eventually. If I pester him enough over it.

But I don’t want to think about that right now, so I turn and scoff, “Well. I marked you up, first.” I trace a finger over the pink scar over his eyebrow and his cheek, and his eyelids close at my touch.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him with his eyes closed…have I? I’m still wondering when he opens his eyes and glowers at me.

A thrill of fear races down my spine as I realize he’s still furious about it, me slicing his face open with a kitchen knife.

I’d briefly forgotten he’s a monster, and he's told me time and again he doesn’t like sass.

But he’s letting it slide, apparently, and now his hands are cupping around my rear, kneading my butt as he presses close, hungry in a way I’ve never seen him.

His tongue snakes into my mouth, sweeping along mine and I can taste a hint of metal.

No. Not metal. Blood.

I open more and let him invade, plunging my hands into his wet hair and squeezing, wringing a few watery-pink lines of blood-tainted water to trickle down my arms.

He lifts away from our kiss, and before I can stop him, he turns his head and licks the tinted water away.

“That’s disgusting,” I hiss, even as shivers tingle through me, all the way to the bottoms of my feet, at the hot, wet pressure of his tongue swiping over my skin.

I stand on tiptoe to kiss him again.

His teeth are sharp, almost painful, his kiss violent and messy.

He’s either out of practice kissing me or too horny to give a shit. I taste blood and water on his lips and make a tentative pass with my tongue, seeking more. He tastes…raw and wild, and suddenly that’s all I want.

He growls, low in the back of his throat, “…you _like_ it, you twisted little bitch…”

I grab a handful of his hair and yank on it. “You’re the twisted one.”

“…maybe…but you and me…we’re the same, deep down…” Arrogant amusement tints his words, and I find myself offended. I don’t want to consider what it means if he’s right.

I gasp as he sucks a bruise into my neck. I wonder if he’s going to bite me again.

He’d better not. I don’t like it when he does that.

I warn him. “If you bite me, I swear to God I’ll claw your eyes out.” I’ve never been this bold with him. But I stand my ground.

His eyes narrow and he mocks, “ _Oooooh_. Now that I’d like to see.”

He attacks my neck again, this time scraping his teeth rather roughly over my pulse as if to caution me. I’m pushing it, but I don’t care. He won’t kill me. I know it.

“You won’t be _able_ to see,” I sing into the damp side of his neck. “Not if I take your fucking eyes.”

He chuckles, a sound of wicked menace, and I dig my fingernails into the meat of his shoulders, answering his threat with my own.

“I’m just gonna have to eat you up, then,” he murmurs, spinning me in his arms, so I can watch in the bathroom mirror.

His hands smooth over my hips, his thumbs pressing against my lower back. I know he’s testing the flesh there, evaluating. I’m rounding out again, maybe not all the way back to where I was when he found me, but I’ve put on a few pounds and I’m not quite so scrawny anymore.

Still, he can nearly span my waist with those large, brutal hands, and a tremor of fear quakes through me. He could rip me to pieces if he wants. I wouldn't be strong enough to stop him. Just like I wasn't strong enough to stop -

He looms behind me, all wet and dark and monstrous, and he looks quite capable of gobbling me up. Trickles of bloody water stream from his hair, along his face and neck, over the indentations of muscle and bone that so magnificently display his physical prowess, his power.

His eyes glint black with want as he cups a hand around my throat and sweeps the other over my belly and down, pressing me back against him, enforcing his claim. 

Vague terror competes with restless desire. He lightly strokes me, and I don’t think I should be watching this. It feels like I’m looking at a dirty movie or something. My eyelids flutter closed, and my head falls back against the heavy muscle of his pecs.

He touches me for a minute, kissing the side of my neck, tonguing at my wild pulse. 

And then he does the exact same thing Hux did. He sweeps my hair from my shoulders so he can read his words, carved into me for all eternity. I know he literally just looked at them two minutes ago, but I bite out, “Don’t!”

He pauses. I feel a light kiss over the promise he’d so inelegantly cut into me, his warm breath fanning the words to flame.

“Shhh, baby. It’s just me. It’s just us, now.”

Just us, and I’m his.

He kisses the tops of my shoulders, one after the other, sweeping his hands around to cover my breasts. Despite the shower steam accumulating all around us, chills shiver up and down my spine. I try to relax.

He took me, marked me as his, and now I belong to him.

I can rationalize what Ben did to me because maybe I deserved it for cutting him. I can justify his actions so much easier than...

_Hux was here._

I open my eyes and hate the naked fear reflecting back.

For that, I hate him, too. All of _them_. Animals. Beasts.

Sudden anger hurtles through me, a tempest of fury and pain I can’t restrain any longer. Wet animosity streams down my cheeks and I don’t even try to suppress my unmitigated reproach.

My voice shakes with accusation and I speak through gritted teeth. “It’s your fault. That it happened. That I…lost... _her_ …that I’m…I’m…that he _mutilated_ me...”

_Your fault I’m broken._

His jaw clenches. He glances down, and I know he’s reading the _other_ words, the ones that aren’t his.

“You think I don’t fucking know it’s my fault?” he mutters so quietly I wouldn’t have believed he ever said it.

I shake my head to disagree. No. I don’t think he really knows.

He’s running a hand down the front of me again, pressing a finger between my legs and curving up into me and it is tender there…I draw in a sharp breath at the strangeness of it after months of abstinence.

“We’ll get ‘em all, baby. Promise.”

If I pull away, it will infuriate him, I know. And if I touch him? If I touch him, I will infuriate myself for wanting more.

My arms are shaking, and I compromise, leaning slightly to brace my hands on the vanity, a temporary truce between my warring emotions. But it doesn’t stop the tears.

“How am I supposed to believe in you? After everything?”

“You’ll just have to find a way to forgive me.” He bites his lip and kisses the side of my neck, watching the mirror from the corner of his eye, as if he can’t stop himself.

I shake my head again and catch my breath. It’s pointless to argue, to fight. My first hard lesson learned. And oh, how I learned.

He crowds close, inspecting my reflection with x-ray eyes. He can see everything, all of it. All of my grief. My overwhelming anxiety. And a simmering, bitter rage pushing in between us, inescapable and tangible.

“What did I _just_ say?” He strokes me again, not hard, but _firm_.

“You said _we’ll get them all_ ,” I whisper accusingly.

But does he even know he’s _one_ of them? The worst of the lot? That he’s no better than Teedo or D.J. or…even Hux…?

He’s riveted, watching the mirror as he pushes his fingers deeper inside me. I try not to wince, even as I shift to give him better access. 

“I heard the skill saw…in your shed,” I hint, scrambling for more time, for a reprieve against the inevitable. I don’t think I really want to know what he did to D.J., but I can’t stop myself from prying. It’s like a scab I want to pick. And an excellent distraction to keep these other, more tumultuous feelings at bay for just a few seconds longer.

He kisses my neck again and strokes up, hitting my clit so perfectly I gasp.

I try to draw out the time for just another minute, asking, “Did you make him beg for mercy?”

“Hell, yeah, I did.”

“Did you make him sorry?”

“Baby, I don’t think you need the details, but let’s just say he didn’t die happy. He was very sorry.”

He withdraws his hand and lifts his fingers to his nose, sniffing lewdly and humming in apparent pleasure at the scent of me. As if to confirm it, he grunts, “God, I love the smell of your cunt.”

I feel my cheeks heat at his vulgar proclamation.

He spins me to face him and lifts me so my legs wrap around his waist. I can feel the hard heat of him riding between my thighs and I know he wants to do more…and I _think_ I do, but…

“Just…wait a second…” I tell him, breathless.

But Ben just ignores me and steps into the tub, still holding me and standing moodily under the spray of steamy water from the shower.

“Not sure I can wait much longer, baby girl,” he bites out, staring at my mouth before meeting my eyes again. “…I _do_ know…it’s all my fault…”

It was. It _is_.

He kisses my cheeks, still wet with tears, and his lips cling to mine…as if he’s sorry.

Maybe he is.

He tastes like salt and blood and water and lust and I hate him. But I need him.

I kiss him some more, so he knows I want to…but.

“I’m just scared.” My words sound small, pathetic. But my admission takes more than I thought it would.

His eyes glitter into mine. He knows. “You remember what I said that first time? _Our_ first time?”

I sniff. “That I was going to last so much longer than the last one?” _Rose._

He cocks his head at the waver in my voice. “The _other_ thing.”

Probably not a good idea for him to bring up the first time he raped me on top of the fact he murdered my best friend, but I shake my head _no_ instead of slapping him.

He goes on, relentless, “I said…I was your first…and I promised I’d be your last…remember?”

That’s right. I remember. I glare into his eyes. “So what?” More tears stream down. Why is he even talking about _that_ awful day?

“…so…” he backs me against the tile wall lifting my legs into an obscene sprawl. I feel him pressing in, and I look down. I tense at the thick heaviness of his arousal pushing against me, red and veined and dripping and huge. Shit, I forgot how big he is.

I grip his shoulders so I don’t fall, and he takes himself in hand, rubbing the head of his dick against me, lubricating us both. I’m shaking, but I won’t fight him. He angles us so he can slide into me.

…and that first hot press, that initial intrusion of _him_ , sends my breath into shallow panting that mixes with his throaty grunts as he works his way inside inch by inch.

“Everything else…in between…doesn’t mean a damn thing…” he breathes. “Except this.”

He takes hold of my hips and forces me down the rest of the way and I groan, low and hard.

He pulls out and pushes in again, more insistently. Maybe I want to disagree, but I can’t because he’s kissing me, taking me over, invading my mouth and sending ripples of pleasure skipping along my nerve endings.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs with a rough bounce of his hips. “Let the past die. I’ll help you kill it if I have to. Nothing else matters.”

I nod. Good. This is good. We've talked about killing the past, in those first few days after...and before...

His tongue sweeps out to moisten his plush bottom lip, and I tentatively flex against him, seeking something… _more_ …readily meeting the sinuous roll of his hips and press of flesh to flesh.

And it’s like striking a match to dry tinder.

He bounces me again and growls, glaring into my eyes with all the blistering heat of a conflagration.

He glances down again to watch himself impale me, and I watch too as he splits me open, hammering in with ruthless possession, quite literally driving home his point.

A low moan climbs up out of my throat, and he mutters so gently, so coaxingly, “Look. Look at you, taking my cock. Like you were made _just_ for me…made for this…to be mine…”

I rest my forehead on his chest and watch, fascinated as he moves rhythmically, in and out, his breath huffing in my ear, his hands flexing on me.

His fingers claw into my hips, hard enough to bruise, but I don’t fucking care because I’m his and he can mark me up however he wants.

Nothing else matters. He said.

“Who’s here now?” he snarls. “Fucking you?”

“You are…” I whimper eagerly, shifting against him to get more friction.

“Anyone else?”

“…no, just you…”

I glance up to meet his gaze boring into mine as he’s drilling into me below.

“Mine.” His lips peel back, baring his teeth.

Bloody water or sweat or I don’t fucking know what dampens his forehead, and he’s glaring at me so ferociously I’m trembling.

He presses in for a savage kiss, pinning me to the tiles until I can’t move, thrusting so fiercely, so _perfectly_ …

“Say it…” he growls.

“…I’m yours…”

My thighs quiver, my heels dig into the small of his back, and I can feel my breasts bouncing against his hot skin as I ride him…

“You’re mine…” he repeats with every thrust until I’m sobbing recklessly.

_Yes._

He arches my spine, so he can bow his head to suck and bite at my nipples, and it’s too much. The hot pressure of his mouth and teeth combine with the scorching length of him pounding between my legs, and luscious tendrils of lightning whip through my veins.

“Fuck!” I squeal when he changes the angle again and rocks into me hard enough to pitch me over the edge of sanity, driving in with all the finality of a coffin nail.

This insanity is where I want to live forever, it feels so fucking good. His pubic bone grinds against my clit and I’m so full of him, I can’t stop coming.

"...so good... _mine_..." he groans and quakes against me.

His harsh cry of release vibrates right into my bones, and I answer with a gasping sob as a fresh shockwave of mind-bending pleasure clutches low in my belly, clamping down and pulling him in until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.

He’s shaking, his muscles trembling under my fingertips. His mouth slams down onto mine, tasting of blood and water. He holds me there, pinned between him and the wall until our breathing slows, until our racing heartbeats settle.

My head is spinning, and I feel high. Maybe this is even better than drugs because he's with me. I know he feels it, too.

He feels _something_.

And I can work with that.

After we soap each other down and finish washing up, we throw on pajamas and eat our bruschetta and salad and share the bottle of wine.

Pleasantly buzzed, I ask him what he is going to do about D.J.’s body growing cold in the toolshed.

He promises he will take care of it later and says I can ride along if I want or stay home and sleep. Part of me wants to go, but the other part wants to let him do his thing.

Besides, I already said goodbye to D.J.

So, we go to bed early, and he pulls off my pajamas and strips out of his own and climbs on top of me with a soft groan, pushing his fingers into my hair and kissing me as if we are in love.

As if he is making love to me. As if we are in some kind of real goddamn relationship.

_Just let him._

And I do. I let him, even though it reminds me of the old days.

I want to forget he is a monster. Just for a little while.

He kisses my hair before he rolls out of bed in the dead of night, and I pretend to sleep while I listen to him get dressed in the shadowy darkness. He curses when he bumps into the end of the bed, and I almost giggle, but I keep my breathing even as he creeps out of the room.

After an hour or so, I hear the muted slam of the trunk of his car, the turn of the engine, the fading crunch of tires pulling out of the driveway. I figure he is probably taking the body out to bear country. Hopefully not too close to Teedo, or someday someone might notice a pattern.

I wonder how many other bodies might be up in those woods, and my mind turns to Rose. And the baby.

I didn’t even ask him what he’d named her, and it obviously never occurred to him to tell me.

I slip on my pajamas again and his bathrobe, a new one from Wal-Mart. It is enormous but much warmer than the silky one we picked out for me.

We had to go there and buy all new clothes and towels and sheets, after…

Ben assured me it was fine, that we could afford it, and I am secretly a little bit glad to have a fresh start, so to speak.

I pad barefoot through the house, pausing just briefly over the fifth tile in the kitchen, barely even hesitating, before stepping out into the cold night air.

The grass is cool and tickles my toes as I make my way past the toolshed. Curiously, I peek through the window, but everything looks perfectly normal, although it’s too dark to tell for sure.

But, Ben is a cop, so hopefully he will know how to cover up a crime scene. We seem to be going through tarps at an alarming rate, what with all the murder and remodeling, though. I will remind him to grab some more on our next trip to Wal-Mart.

But I don’t stop to inspect the interior of the shed too closely. My feet carry me around back, to the hydrangeas.

The sky overhead is partially overcast, the moon is not yet full. Faint light shines through the clouds to light the pale blue and purple flowers, delicate and ghostlike.

A small depression in the grass indicates the likely place where the soil settled around a very small grave. He must have cut the sod, then dug the hole to get the grass to match so well with the rest.

I sit next to it, lightly running my fingers over the soft blades of grass. Moonlight filters down, tranquil and sad.

Life is so very strange.

“He said he’d take me shooting tomorrow…today, actually,” I tell her. “I’m going to learn to shoot, and then I’m going to help him…”

_We’ll get ‘em all, baby. Promise._

“I’ll probably need to learn to drive, too. I never…never learned how to do that…”

It’s weird to talk to nothing. I don’t think she can hear me.

_I’ll bet she’s fulla worms by now. What do you think?_

I push that thought away. I don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to imagine –

A hot fist of grief clamps over my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, my words misting the chill air in ghastly puffs. “I…didn’t know…I’ve never…had to take care of anyone before…didn’t do a very good job of…taking care of you…”

Burning sobs gurgle up and I let the tears roll down my face to sprinkle over the ground where she lies.

His fault. This is all his fault.

“It’s my fault, too,” I whisper, curling into a ball next to that little patch of grass. “But we are going to get them all.”

_Daddy promised._

I wake, disoriented. I am floating, being lifted into the air, held securely in warm, hard arms. I’m drifting across the yard, and it takes a split second to realize I’m being carried.

“I’m sorry…” I murmur huskily. My throat hurts. “Fell asleep.”

I bury my face in the scratchy flannel he’s wearing. He smells like the forest and just faintly of oiled leather. It’s masculine and delicious.

“What were you doing out there, baby?” he croons. “Weren’t you cold?”

Maybe. It doesn’t matter. I hug him and feel an answering squeeze.

Nothing matters except this.

He carries me back into the house, to bed, and tucks me in, still wearing his robe.

I fall asleep with the memory of blood and water on my tongue, dreaming of guns and bullets and making them pay for what they did.

I wonder if – when I shoot him – if Hux’s head will explode in a bloody pulp the same way Teedo’s did.

I wonder if he’ll feel sorry.

* * *


	11. Subversion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This chapter is pretty fucked up. I don't even know what to say. Just...yeah.
> 
> Also, fair *warning, Kylo uses an ableist slur, and while I would NEVER condone in real life, I can tell you that the way Kylo talks in this fictional story is 90% nicer than any real-life drug dealer, so...yeah again.
> 
> REMINDER: Kylo. Is. Not. Nice. Please re-read those tags. Just as a reminder.
> 
> [Drug Dealer Girl, Mike Posner](https://open.spotify.com/track/2E4A5fyFuOLV5F6qxGKPnB?si=tk6x44fIRDWYR9NhgozRlw)

# Chapter Eleven – Subversion 

**sub·ver·sion | \ səb-ˈvər-zhən , -shən\**

**Definition of _subversion_**

**1:** the act of subverting: the state of being subverted _especially_ : a systematic attempt to overthrow or undermine a government or political system by persons working secretly from within

 **2** _obsolete_ : a cause of overthrow or destruction

**subvert**

**verb**

**sub·vert | \ səb-ˈvərt \**

**subverted; subverting; subverts**

**Definition of _subvert_**

**_transitive verb_ **

**1:** to overturn or overthrow from the foundation: RUIN

 **2:** to pervert or corrupt by an undermining of morals, allegiance, or faith

* * *

When I wake again, Ben is lying in bed with me, curled around me as always, so I can’t see his face as he sleeps.

I’m boiling hot and soaked in sweat and I realize I fell asleep wrapped in his bathrobe and the blankets and him. I try to lift his arm away so I can get up to pee and make coffee.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” he grunts, kissing the top of my head before rolling away so I can move.

“Everything go okay last night?” I ask curiously, slipping out of his bathrobe and hanging it on a hook on our new bedroom door.

“Yeah.”

He’s taking a rare day off from both of his _jobs_ so he can take me to the shooting range and start teaching me everything he knows.

As I glance at him lying there, part of me wants to crawl back in and kiss the sleepy look off his face. But I flash him a smile instead and saunter down the hall, leaving the door open so he can see the exaggerated wiggle of my hips.

Before I go into the bathroom, I turn around and catch him watching. The heat in his eyes is enough to send molten desire shooting straight to my belly.

I blow him a kiss and shriek and run for cover when he jumps off the bed and bolts for me with a breathless laugh before I can turn the lock on the bathroom door.

We are the only ones at the range, and he tells me it’s owned by a family friend so we can come during the off hours. Gun club members will show up later, but for now, we have the place to ourselves.

He takes his time showing me how to stand, letting me hold the gun, getting me used to the weight of it. Today I’m shooting a .22 pistol, and Ben explains the differences between pistols and revolvers and the pros and cons of each.

Before we start shooting, he insists I don both earplugs and hearing muffs, which he tucks carefully around my head, before tugging playfully on my ponytail. I smile up at him, admiring how sexy he looks with his hair slicked back, still damp from our shower this morning.

He stands behind me and the warm press of his body against mine is terribly distracting.

We take a few practice shots, him nudging my feet with his, shifting my hips just slightly, large hands pressing over mine to adjust my grip. Every adjustment he makes feels better, natural, and I am finally able to hit the target after a few rounds, which he says is pretty impressive, considering I’ve never done it before.

He intersperses the shooting with safety tips and proper technique. I’m struck by the irony of him teaching me so much, how he's so willingly handing me such deadly tools and trusting me.

I mean, let's face it. I have a few reasons to blow his pretty head off.

Although, according to him, the .22 isn’t a large enough caliber to ensure _immediate_ destruction and chaos. I should wait until I have a bigger gun, right?

He assures me the .22 is a good starter gun and can still inflict plenty of damage.

After a while, I take a break. My arms are surprisingly weak, although Ben assures me I’ll get stronger. I watch as he unloads a few rounds from his own gun into the target. His arms barely twitch at the recoil, and I know his larger caliber weapon packs a wallop in comparison to my .22. 

At first, I think he only hit dead center just once and the rest of the shots didn’t even hit the paper…until he pulls it forward by an electronic dolly and I see he just hit the same hole over and over again.

“Holy shit!” I cry, impressed.

“Yeah. I’m not as accurate in a real-world situation though. You trade accuracy for speed. So, you make up for that by proximity.”

Ah. That explains why only half of Teedo’s head came off. He was off-center, but close enough it didn’t matter. When I mention it Ben nods.

“That’s right, baby. You have to factor in all kinds of things, not the least of which is adrenaline. And it’s harder to hit a moving target than a static one. So, when you aim at the bad guys, don’t try to be cute and shoot out their kneecaps, because you’ll miss and then they’ll take your gun away and kill you with it. Aim for the largest target, the torso. Statistically, you’ll have a higher chance of hitting something.”

This makes sense, and I let him teach me how to aim. He’s a good teacher, and I have utterly forgotten he’s a monster.

“See, Hollywood is all bullshit. All for show. They always show the cops entering a room with the gun next to their faces, pointed at the ceiling, which is the stupidest fucking thing in the world. You’re far more accurate and faster aiming the gun from a lowered position. Fewer micro adjustments needed when you raise the gun.”

He has me try it, to aim by bringing the gun down from above, versus bringing it up from being pointed at the ground.

He’s right. It’s amazing and fascinating.

“It might look pretty on screen, but it isn’t realistic. And half a second of adjusting your aim might cost your life, so always take the sure shot.”

He proceeds to give me a bit of a math and ballistics lesson and I’m riveted by it. We shoot some more, and I’ve already grown proficient at hitting the paper most of the time.

After a few hours, my ears are ringing, and I need another break, this time from the relentless noise.

“Yeah, that’s more TV lies. Guns are a lot louder in real life. All those shows where people are shooting guns and having normal conversations between rounds or after? That’s bullshit unless they’re wearing hearing protection. Nobody’s eardrums can take that kind of punishment.”

I believe him. I remember how my ears rang for hours after he shot Teedo, and that was just from one shot.

I had no idea he knew so much. I’m rather floored by it. But mostly I’m having fun watching him.

No. I’m just having _fun_ , I realize.

I can’t remember the last time I actually…did something fun.

And…shooting is a blast.

He takes me home after driving me through McDonald’s for a cheeseburger that I barely even had to beg for, and then he shows me how to take apart and clean not only my .22 and the .38, but his .44 magnum Desert Eagle, too.

Now _that_ is a big, sexy gun. He tells me when I am good with the .38 and a .22 and maybe a shotgun, he’ll let me shoot the .44. He has a .357, too, but we didn’t bring that one today.

He has guns all over the house, now. Now that I’m being good, and he knows I’m trustworthy.

I mention I’m glad he didn’t have any in the house the day I was attacked. He shrugs, sighting his .44 down his arm, looking for microscopic bits of lint or I don’t know what.

“They probably would have just killed ya, and then where would we be?”

I agree.

Ben takes me to the range as often as he can, and I’m getting really good. He tells me he’s proud of me, and every day he promises when the time is right, we are going to hunt down the rest of those fuckers who hurt me. He can't bring me any more _presents_ , partly because most of them have gone to ground. Plus, we can't draw too much attention, yet. Timing is important.

Sometimes Ben drops me off to hang out with his “Uncle” Lando at the range. Lando owns the place and is apparently a longtime friend of Ben’s parents. He’s older, with a dark complexion and a full head of curly salt and pepper hair. 

The first time we meet, I am utterly floored that Ben trusts me in the care of someone else while he goes to work. He is so nonchalant about it, I just stand there and let him kiss me on the cheek. I watch, amazed, as he strolls out to his car while Lando gives me a friendly, one-sided hug and welcomes me to the family. He’s wearing a bright yellow button-down shirt, and clearly considers himself a man of fashion, if the sharp creases in his slacks and highly-polished shine on his shoes is any indication. 

I am so discombobulated by it, I let Lando do most of the talking as he leads me back to the outdoor range.

“Still can’t get over how much Ben looks like his old man, God rest his soul,” Lando mutters with a rueful shake of his head, as he passes me some earmuffs and a shotgun. 

I’ve only shot the shotgun a few times, but Lando invites me to take a few practice shots before starting our lesson. I take my stance, aim, and squeeze the trigger as Ben taught me, hitting the target close to the center.

Lando exclaims, “Hey! You’re a natural!” and while his fervent enthusiasm feels vaguely condescending, maybe even misogynistic, I am willing to excuse it based on his age and lavish charm.

I take aim again and this time hit dead center, unable to keep from grinning at Lando’s impressed whoop.

Over the course of the day, we keep our conversation on neutral topics. I have a strong intuition if I pry too deeply into Ben’s past and Ben finds out, I won’t be coming back here again.

Still, Lando does make an offhand comment about his “Skywalker blood”, and I file it away. Something to think about later.

Ben’s uncle is a priest, his father is dead, and…the name Skywalker prickles uncomfortably at the back of my mind.

I know I’ve heard it before, but I can’t for the life of me remember when or why.

I decide to keep my eyes and ears open around Lando and see if I can’t glean some more tidbits about his “nephew” without being too terribly obvious.

I spend my days on chores and reading and watching our new TV, doing Pilates in the living room, and venturing outside only to check the mail or sweep the front porch or occasionally pull weeds out of the flowerbeds so the house doesn’t look run-down.

Keeping up with the Jones’s in the suburbs is no joke. Naturally, I eventually meet my neighbors and I introduce myself as Ben’s girlfriend.

A couple of months after D.J., Ben comes home from work and I tell him about it.

“Is that okay? If I tell people I’m your girlfriend?” I ask. I'm unpacking the groceries he brought home, setting a bottle of wine aside. He only buys red, which is fine with me.

He laughs. “Yeah. What else would you tell ‘em? You’re my sister? And I fuck you to sleep every night?” He’s unloading canned stuff into the cupboards and I’m putting away the fridge stuff.

I shrug. This whole conversation is weird.

I keep unpacking groceries until I realize the air in the room has grown very, very still.

“We could always say you’re my wife…if you want…?”

I whirl around and gape at him. “Did you just propose marriage to me?”

He’s cocked a hip against the counter, arms crossed. He’s not wearing his uniform since today was a Snoke day, or at least that's what I call it. He tilts his head.

“If I did, would you say yes?” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and raises an eyebrow.

He’s really asking, I think.

I swallow, trying to rapidly formulate an answer that won’t piss him off or set him into one of his rage spirals. I haven’t seen one for ages, and I’ve been walking on eggshells wondering what might trigger his next one.

Still. Marrying him isn’t a horrible idea if I can leverage it, somehow. Get something out of him.

I sidle over and drape my arms around his neck, lifting my face to his so he can kiss me.

“…if I say yes, would you do something for me, first?” I murmur against his ridiculously soft lips.

“…hmmm?”

“Burn Hux’s shit off my back. And I’ll marry you.”

His jaw clenches and he breathes hard, a short, angry puff of air against my face.

He shakes his head. “I thought I told you no,” he mutters slowly, eyes flashing with danger.

I bat my eyelashes and twist a silky lock of his hair around my finger.

I press my hips against him and can’t think of anything to say. So I rub against his crotch until he bites out, “You scheming little _bitch_. I’m not falling for it. I already told you it’s too risky.”

Every time I bring it up, he tells me he doesn’t want to damage my spine or nerves and the cuts are too close to risk it.

“I’ll be okay,” I whisper, grinding harder and tracing my fingertips over the back of his neck. “We both know I’ve been through worse.”

“I said _no_.” He’s scowling and he’s gone all flat and harsh, and my heartbeat kicks up a couple of notches. _Shit_. “And if you think I don’t know _exactly_ what you’re doing, then, _oooh_ , baby girl, you better check yourself. Right fucking now.”

I take a deep breath and try again, more serious this time. If he won’t do what I want one way, then maybe I can get him to do it another way. “Ben. I just want those scars gone. How can you fuck me knowing another man’s name is on me?”

His grip tightens into a bruising vise and his eyes glitter black with warning.

Oh _fuck_ , that was the wrong thing to say.

He leans forward so his mouth hovers next to my ear. “It’s been a _while_ since I taught you a lesson…that why you’re acting like this? Hmmm?” His voice turns soft, almost song-like. “You miss being my little fucktoy? Want me to get my handcuffs and have some real fun? Like old times?”

No.

His grip is painful on my hips. I lean back. Sudden frustration wells out of my chest in hot, shuddering waves. My hands lower to clutch at his arms.

“You don’t know what it feels like!” My voice raises, and I can’t lower it. “Living like this? Every time I look in the mirror –”

“Then don’t fucking look at it!” he snarls, and he’s so close I can’t see his face.

Adrenaline kicks in and my fingertips tingle with energy.

I try to shove off of his chest, but he’s solid as a brick wall and holding me too tight. I can’t step away.

I hate the tears suddenly there because I want to be angry, not all sad and devastated and pathetic.

“You don’t fucking know what it’s like,” I hiss this time, furious at the catch in my throat.

Fury washes over his face and he lifts a brow, and he’s going all cold and murderous like he does right before he snaps.

“Guess what, honey? There’s _plenty_ you don’t know,” he grinds out, nostrils flaring with hostility.

He snares my wrists in his massive hands, shackling me as surely as if he’s cuffed me. I try to pull away, but he just follows, herding me backward out of the kitchen.

“I don’t know _what_?” I shriek, growing hysterical.

“Know what it feels like to come home and find the only thing in your life you give half a shit about covered in blood and filth and thinking she’s dead?”

I growl. It’s the only sound I can make, I’m so pissed off. How dare he try to compare his trauma to mine? How fucking _dare_ he?

He keeps going, relentless, “You don’t know what it’s like to clean up blood and puke and piss and _cum_ and _shit_ from six fucking _animals_ while your girlfriend is fucking _dying_ in the neighbor’s house across the street.”

I try to jerk my hands away so I can claw his eyes out, but he keeps backing me down the hall, all the way to our room. The door is cracked open and he pushes me into it. It bounces off my hip and swings open to crash into the wall.

“You were half-fucking- _gone_ when I had to clean our dead baby girl’s blood off the floor. So, don’t tell me what I _don’t_ fucking know,” he bites so furiously, I freeze.

I can’t breathe.

He chokes as if to stop, but his eyes are positively glowing with hellfire now. “You don’t fucking _know_ …”

“What?” I snap.

He shakes me hard, thumbs digging into my arms until I whimper in pain. He spits out in a voice straight from the pit of Hell, “I didn’t have anything to bury her in.”

_What?_

He shoves me to sit on the bed, hard enough to snap my head back. He’s staring down at me, almost meditatively. “They ruined her blanket…it wasn’t fit to wrap her in.”

I shake my head. Stop. Stop it.

“I tried…couldn’t find anything in the house that hadn’t been... _defiled_ …so I…”

“Stop! _Pleeease_.” The words scrape out of me on a long wail of anguish.

“I used my t-shirt. It was the only clean bit of fabric I could get my hands on in a hurry.”

“Ben. _Please_ …” _Stop. This is torment beyond what I can take._

“Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t…wrap my head around it, how tiny…”

Tears and snot are streaming down my face and all I can do is moan and strangle on my own agony.

“I tried to hurry…so she wouldn’t…tried to baptize her in the back yard, with the garden hose. Couldn’t use the kitchen sink, they ripped the faucet out. And the bathroom was…it was too…”

Hot tears flow down my face and I can’t hear anything. I can’t see anything. This is a pain I can’t endure.

He rasps out, “…then I had to dig the grave and hope to God she made it…”

I just need him to stop this torture.

He does. He stares down at me for a long time. I can feel it, even if I can’t meet his eyes.

“Don’t fucking tell me what I don’t fucking know,” he finally mutters hoarsely. “And don’t try to manipulate me again. Not with…not with that.”

“I’m _sorry!_ ” I sob belatedly, burying my face in my hands.

He turns and stomps out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “If you want me to burn your fucking scars off, I’ll do it. But I don’t wanna hear any bellyachin’ about how much it hurts.”

I flop onto my side and bawl into the pillow for an hour before making my way out to the kitchen to help with dinner.

Ben’s quiet but good-natured enough as we settle on the sofa to eat and watch TV. I have no idea what’s on. I zone out, wishing I had one last hit and recalling my last high and how I should have appreciated it more. If I had known then it would be my last time, I would have…I don’t know, tried to enjoy it more.

Ben chuckles along with the canned laughter on the television and offers to grab me a glass of wine when he takes our empty plates into the kitchen during a commercial break.

I mumble _yes_ and wonder if he still wants to marry me.

* * *

It’s been months, and I’m on edge.

We are in the City, parked in a neighborhood that reminds me rather strongly of where I grew up, if not by location then by the desolate sense of hopelessness lingering everywhere. It’s ten in the morning and overcast, but I’m sweating with nerves.

He’s calm as can be, although I know inside, he’s boiling with the same rage that’s been building alongside mine over the past few months as he did exactly as promised and taught me how to handle a gun and drive a car.

We just…we both need an outlet other than each other.

Let’s just say things have been…interesting at home.

“How do you know he’ll come and talk to you?” I ask, unable to sit still.

“Just watch, you’ll see.”

Sure enough, after a minute, a twelve-year-old kid with the hardened eyes of a forty-five-year-old bookie trots up to our car. Ben rolls down his window.

“Hey, Kylo! Got any addy?”

“Nah, kid, I only sling Hoz. And only then if you can afford to be a return customer. Whatcha smokin’?”

The kid reluctantly pulls the joint from behind his ear and hands it over. Ben holds out a hand for a lighter, too, and the kid slaps a Bic into Ben’s palm with even more reluctance.

Ben lights up and takes a drag, much to my surprise. Ben has never so much as taken an aspirin that I know of. A dank cloud of pot smoke fills the cab of the car before dissipating.

“This isn’t Snoke’s shit…where’d ya get it?” 

The kid shuffles his feet, hesitant. The vibe pumping out of Ben goes from congenial low-life businessman to fuckin’ scary in point-five seconds. He doesn’t even need to speak to get the kid talking. Hell, even I have goosebumps.

“Yo, that’s some Kanja-ganja shit, man…”

“Thought Leech blew town. You sayin’ he’s flippin dope now?”

The kid swallows and looks nervously at me for the first time.

“Who’s the narc?” The kid scans me suspiciously, attempting to change the subject. As previously discussed, I answer with my scripted line.

“I’m Kylo’s...girlfriend. Um. I mean wife. I'm Rey.” I plant a fake smile on my face.

The kid arches a brow and looks back at Ben, wariness blooming into full-blown suspicion. Ben glares bullets at me and I shrink into the passenger seat.

“Sounds like you're not sure, _lady_ ,” the kid accuses, looking sharply between me and Ben. His eyes land on Ben’s scar and he sniffs, rubbing a half-curled, dirty fist under his nose.

Ben interjects before I can answer. “Yeah, she’s not very smart. It’s what happens when you’re a smackhead.” He glowers at me and mutters under his breath, just loud enough for the kid to hear, “I oughtta slap the shit outta you.”

The kid lifts both eyebrows, watching us avidly, taking in every detail.

I roll my eyes and move my arms to draw attention to the track marks scarring them.

The kid notices, and I glare at Ben.

He shakes his head and mumbles to the kid, “Tell your dad he still owes me for that dime-bag I floated him last month.” The kid nods. “And stay off the hard stuff or you’ll end up retarded like her.”

I gasp in outrage. “You can’t say that!”

“What?”

“You can’t say _retarded_ ,” I stammer. That’s so messed up.

“Well, you can’t even remember we're married. So, you must be retarded.”

“That’s so, that’s so…” I sputter.

“What? You serious right now?” He barks a short laugh, harsh and complete with a dramatic eye roll of his own.

“Yo, Kylo, that bitch is right tho. You shouldn’t say that word.” The kid shakes his head in mild disgust at the both of us and runs off. 

I glare at Ben for his unscripted contribution to the show. “If we are going to have kids someday, you can’t talk like that,” I scold. Even the little stoner kid knows better.

Ben is just smirking at me and licking his lips.

“God, you’re a piece of work. All right. Tell you what. You can prove how smart you are right now. Wanna make a delivery for me?”

_A delivery? What?_

“Really?”

“Yeah. I just dropped the bait, and I need you to set the hook.”

I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, but I think it’s something to do with fishing.

Wait.

“I’m not the bait, am I?”

“Nah. I’m the bait. You’re the decoy.”

He pulls out his gun and opens the chamber with a flick of his wrist, so I can see it’s loaded.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot,” he warns, waving me to sit forward.

“I know!” After all the time I’ve spent at the range, I should be less anxious, but this is his .357 and I’ve never held it before. It’s almost bigger than I am. It’s way heavier than I thought it would be.

“Remember what I said about kick?”

“Yeah. But. Will I need to shoot?” I whisper, unconsciously wanting to give it back to him. 

“Only if you’re in trouble. This piece’ll blow a hole the size of a cantaloupe in someone, so be fuckin’ careful, all right?”

“What about you? Don’t you need a gun?” Something flickers behind his eyes at the question. Something odd.

“You care?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Baby, I have another gun,” he tells me with a wink and a smirk. Cocky bastard.

He reaches under his seat and pulls out a plastic sack. He shows me what’s inside, and I…

I start to salivate.

Many, _many_ baggies of H, measured into equal portions, are sitting right fucking there, ready to go.

Unexpected, rampant _want_ claws into me at the sight. Oh, shit. There are a lot of sweet, sweet dreams in that Wal-Mart bag.

I want it so bad. I want it. I want to shoot it all up right now, every last bit until I can’t see straight.

He watches me while I get a grip.

_I can’t I can’t I can’t._

“You’ve got this. You’re stronger than you know,” he murmurs, that odd glint still in his eyes. “All you have to do is walk down the block, take a left. There will be an out-of-business convenience store across the street and an old man on the bench out front. Sit down and set the bag on the bench next to you. He will take it and get up and leave. He’ll leave a bag of money behind. Wait two minutes, take the bag, come back. That’s it.”

He motions me forward, and I scoot up so he can tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans, pulling my sweater into place over it. I’m sure it makes a rather conspicuous lump.

“I’m gonna stand right over there and wait for you,” he tells me, indicating a dumpster in the alley across the way. He grips my jaw and forces me to meet his gaze. “I don’t need to tell you what happens if you try to run off with that horse, baby. I know you want to.”

I jerk my chin out of his hand, offended. “I won’t.”

“Good girl.”

My heart is already pounding, my legs shaking like I just shot up. I step out of the car and head down the block, the weight of Ben's gun pressing uncomfortably into my still-tender burn.

While I walk, I think.

I try to think about anything but the fact that I have enough heroin on me to last a solid fucking year.

And then I try not to think at all.

It hurts to think.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyhow. Yeah. I hope you liked, but let me know what you think in the comments. XOXO!


	12. Sedition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: This fic is tagged for graphic violence.
> 
> [Big Bad Wolf, In This Moment](https://open.spotify.com/track/0QB98b4YFxtW4NQ9narHQM?si=OGZhBv8hSsqXSrMynH8XMw)

# Chapter Twelve – Sedition

se·di·tion | \ si-ˈdi-shən \

Definition of _sedition_

: incitement of resistance to or insurrection against lawful authority

* * *

If I don’t think about anything, then it is easy to walk down the block, my footsteps whispering quietly over the dirty sidewalk. This neighborhood is _not_ nice, and I’m not just referring to the general garbage-smell, graffiti, or the abandoned, hopeless air seeping from the buildings. Not as bad as some of the places I’ve been, but I’ve been living in sterile suburbia for so long, I’ve grown rather acclimated to my new life. This place contrasts rather strongly.

There’s an air of quiet watchfulness coming from the windows. Although it’s mid-morning, there’s not a soul in sight. I feel unfriendly eyes on me, and I wonder what Ben’s plan involves.

I keep my eyes open, reminding myself how to walk without drawing attention while simultaneously projecting a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe. The metal of Ben’s gun rides consolingly against my spine, and I decide I will have no trouble whatsoever using it, if the situation calls for it.

As Ben instructed, I head to the end of the street, take a left and find the out-of-business store. I see a flimsy-looking bench and look around. Other than a few people walking briskly down the street, nobody else is in sight.

No. _Wait_.

Another older person is approaching the bench. He has a rickety walker and a plastic bag dangling from it. He looks like a bum, only without the usual accompaniment of his every worldly possession in a broken-down shopping cart.

Something is…off about him, but I’m not afraid. I watch him sit on the bench with a dramatic huff, and I can’t tell if his sigh is feigned or real.

For the very briefest moment in time, I wonder how much cash is on him and I know I could probably take it, keep my bag of H, keep the .357 and fucking run for it.

I could do it.

I could take everything and run far, far away, maybe Alaska or the Midwest. Somewhere Ben would never, ever find me.

I could ration that heroin for a long-ass time, make it last.

Escape.

But Ben is waiting for me back in that alley. And he stayed with me, after Hux. He took care of me, taught me. Held me through the endless nightmares...Married me.

It was a tiny, quick-and-dirty courthouse ceremony, but it’s legal enough.

I used my brand-new driver’s license to identify myself and Ben commented ruefully that I’d just have to turn around and get a new one with my new name on it.

When the judge pronounced us husband and wife, Ben grinned and murmured affectionately, “…more like ball and chain…” right before his lips met mine almost chastely.

And later…he took me home, and there was nothing chaste about that at all.

I remind myself why we’re here, how far I’ve come. I think about the real purpose behind all this and shove thoughts of running out of my mind. Those thoughts belong to the old Rey.

That Rey is dead, and I don’t think I’m even that sad about it.

Which is why, instead of doing something stupid, I do exactly as Ben told me. I approach the man on the bench, unsure if I am supposed to make eye contact.

I sit, setting the bag on the bench next to me.

The old man grunts. Maybe he isn’t as old as I first thought. He’s bigger than I thought, too. I wonder how much of his hunched-over perambulation was real.

I wonder if I try to snatch the money and run for it if he couldn’t quite easily chase me down and kill me.

“How’re you doin’ pretty girl?” he rasps in a voice of gravel.

I shrug and ignore him, trusting my gut. No eye contact. Do what Ben said and that’s it. Ben never said to talk to anyone. The man chuckles and the back of my neck tingles.

It occurs to me this is extremely fucking dangerous. I’m a little peeved at Ben for just throwing me into the deep end like this.

I’m rather grateful for the lethal weight of the .357 pressing against my burned spine.

“Not very chatty, are you?” the man says, hooking my Wal-Mart bag over the handle of his walker and standing up carefully. His hands tremble a bit, and he’s hunched over again. But I’m watching his legs.

Steady. Rock steady.

He leaves his bag next to me on the bench.

I could still leave.

There’s plenty of cash in that bag, I’m sure. I peek inside and see several stacks, sealed in air-tight food storage bags.

But Ben is waiting.

I wait two minutes, and the old man disappears around the corner surprisingly quickly.

My heart starts thumping as I take the man’s bag and head back to Ben.

I get all the way to the car before I realize he isn’t in it. I glance over to the dumpster. I don’t see anyone.

Shit.

Ben said he’d be there. I look around. Not a soul in sight.

Just then, I hear a muffled choke from a nearby doorway. Without thinking, I pull the .357 and run to the sound. Against a wall, blocked from view of the street, I find Asky with Ben in a chokehold.

Ben’s face is bright red and Asky has him in a full nelson.

“Let him go!” I shout, raising the gun, just as Ben taught me.

Asky’s eyes widen in surprise and he drops Ben to reach for his own gun and I hear Ben’s voice, almost in slow motion, not out loud, no, he’s choking for air, doubled over, trying to catch his breath. I hear him in my mind.

_Aim for the torso. Always take the sure shot._

“Bye.”

I squeeze the trigger and half of Asky’s chest caves in as the gun kicks so hard it nearly clips me in the jaw.

Asky’s face is still frozen in shock as his body crumples to the ground. The wall behind him looks like someone splashed a bucket of red paint on it.

Ben finally gasps, “ _FUCK_. What took ya so fuckin’ long? You stop for coffee on the way?”

I open my mouth to say something snappy and rude, and I lean over and throw up instead. My hands are shaking, and I’ve dropped the gun.

I just killed a guy. I just blew Asky’s chest open and saved Ben’s worthless fucking life.

_Now there are four._

I could have taken the money, let Ben die, and run off to do anything I wanted…

I could have gone back home and fucking lived there. Probably pretty comfortably off of some police officer widow’s pension, if I played my cards right. We’re married, and half that house is legally mine.

Except I think about what’s buried in Ben’s t-shirt under the hydrangeas, and I sort of…stop worrying about it.

We’re still tied to each other, as if by an invisible string. Now even more so.

Both of us are murderers, now. Killers.

He’s looking at me, incredulous and a bit worried.

“Shit. You okay?”

I’m gagging and gasping and cold and sweaty. I just murdered someone.

That gunshot was loud.

People are probably coming.

Ben’s scrambling around, picking through Asky’s pockets, looking for something.

“Grab the gun and the money, and let’s go.”

My hands shake as I bend to pick up the gun and the plastic bag of cash. I don’t remember dropping it. I’m dizzy.

I watch Ben scan the area. He looks at the blood-spattered wall and shuffles forward to peer at the hole in the bricks.

He uses a multi-tool from his belt to pry out the bullet, whistling, long and low, the kind of sound people make when they are impressed.

“Golden shot, right there, baby girl. Bala-Tik never had a chance. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

I can’t help but notice there is indeed a cantaloupe-sized hole in Asky's chest.

Ben grabs my hand and drags me quickly to the car, shuttling me inside and driving away before anyone even pops their head out of a doorway.

“Don’t forget to buckle up,” he mutters, scanning his mirrors and making a hasty turn that jars me a little.

“Do you think anyone saw us?” I gasp, shakily securing my seat belt.

“Oh, that’s what I’m counting on, baby. That’s what I’m counting on.”

We’re halfway home before I realize I’ve just committed a couple of pretty serious felonies. I mean. I’ve broken the law before but…this just feels really bad. I’m _bad_.

Ben grins when I tell him.

“Ah, you _are_ , baby girl. Leech won’t know what the fuck to do now…”

“What?”

When he tells me, I am very, very grateful I didn’t try to abscond with that Wal-Mart bag.

It was all a lie. A trick.

That wasn’t even real heroin. It was fucking baking soda. Can you imagine what the fuck would have happened to me if I’d tried to shoot up goddamn baking soda?

Why? Why would he do that?

I ask him and he explains. If it looked like he was dealing on Leech’s turf, he knew it would draw out Leech’s heavies.

That kid? Yeah. Ben wanted to make sure the kid was just pissed off enough to tell someone Kylo Ren was dealing in the area. I was the decoy all right.

I asked him who the “old man” was, and Ben laughed.

“Ah, that was Bobbajo. He’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed about those drugs being fake…Leech’ll take the heat for it, but there's nothing he can do about it."

Ben glances at the bag of cash. "That's way more than Leech can afford to lose. He's fucked. He’s too smart to fuck with Snoke.”

“Won’t Snoke hear about it?” I ask nervously.

“It was Snoke’s idea,” he tells me evenly.

“Snoke was the fucking one who ordered Hux to attack me!” I cry, betrayed and infuriated that Ben is so easily able to compartmentalize all of this.

“I know. He wants me to flush out those traitors,” Ben replies as if it should be obvious.

“Why doesn’t he think you’re a traitor, too? You were dealing on the side right alongside the rest of them.”

“I swore I learned my lesson and I’d play nice.” Ben’s getting irritated.

“Even with Hux?”

He turns his head and for just a minute I feel like the Devil himself is looking back at me.

“If you don’t like my methods, honey, you’re welcome to try your own way…” I know damned well he doesn’t mean that. It’s his way or the highway. Every time.

I sigh with relief that I wasn’t stupid enough to run off.

“How did that Bala-guy get you in a chokehold?” I ask instead, knowing the question will annoy him. I’m still not over my urge to needle him a bit.

Ben’s mouth works into a pout. Ooooh, _that_ touched a nerve.

“I wasn’t expecting two of ‘em at once... I’d just wrangled Nines into the trunk and Tick got the jump on me.”

In one of his ever-mercurial mood changes, his jaw works and he cocks his head at me, shooting me a wicked grin.

Just then I hear Nines thumping repeatedly from the trunk of the car, and I sigh. “Can I get something to eat before we deal with him?”

Ben's grin widens. “Sure, baby. He isn’t going anywhere. Hang on while I shut him up.”

Ben pulls over and strolls around to the trunk, popping it open casual as fuck. I watch through the rear windshield as his arm goes up and smashes down, presumably into Nines' face.

After that, the thumping stops and Ben takes me through the drive-thru, although my stomach is still roiling wildly from the adrenaline and…everything else.

We get home and the thumping in the trunk resumes as we pull into the garage.

“Toolshed again?” I ask.

“Thank you, baby,” Ben grunts.

I hop out and get the lanyard with the key while Ben drags a very ticked-off Slim to the toolshed.

And here’s where it gets weird.

I feel fucking numb. I can’t explain it.

I can see his face, the face of one of the men who hurt me, and he was one of the more horrible ones if that’s possible. He didn’t necessarily _do_ anything worse than any of the other ones…I just…I just remember how he held me down for the others, his vise-like grip on my ankles and thighs and arms and face. He was so quiet about it, so _serious_. Like he was really doing something _important_ , really concentrating on the task at hand.

Except for my general hate for him...I’m numb.

I honestly don’t fucking care what happens to him, one way or the other.

Because this isn’t about Slim or Nines or whatever the fuck his real name is. No. It's Ben...

Ben needs this as much as I do, I realize on a brief whim of insight.

Maybe his trauma wasn’t the same as mine, but I’m stronger than him. Not physically, no. But stronger in a way he could never be. 

Yes, I need him to be my big scary monster on a chain...but I think he needs me to be strong, too.

I think that’s what he was saying earlier. I think that’s what he meant. And he _needs_ this…

I am vaguely aware of Ben draping a blue tarp over the floor next to his workbench and flipping Nines onto it. I watch as he pulls a deadly-looking knife, the kind they sell for big-game hunting with the serrated edge. He jerks up Nines’ shirt and before Nines can even try to swat him away, Ben saws a ragged red line into Nines’ abdomen.

Nines lets out a shriek of shock and pain, clutching both hands to the gash in his belly. He’s turned deathly pale, his breathing all harsh and hard, staring at Ben in horror. His eyes start to roll back, but Ben grabs him by the hair and shakes his head.

“…oh, no, no, you better not pass out,” Ben says, “…you need to stay awake and hold your guts in…”

Ben places one of the man’s hands over his belly wound and presses a little. It makes this odd little squelching sound.

I can’t take my eyes away.

He yanks Slim’s – _Nines’_ – other arm straight up and Nines yowls in pain. I hear a horrible, hollow popping sound and I know the arm has been dislocated.

I’ve heard that’s quite painful. Probably almost as painful as the gut injury.

But Ben isn’t done yet.

Ben wrenches the dislocated arm backward and shoves the man’s hand into the vise bolted to the edge of the workbench, whipping the handle around until I hear a crunch of bone. Nines makes an inhuman squawk.

And as fascinating as all of this is, I’m not _really_ watching it, not really.

Because I’m looking at Ben, and he’s fucking magnificent, all coiled rage and lethal predator. It’s like…

It’s like he was made for this, to be a killer, a true butcher.

If you’ve ever watched National Geographic and the tiger takes down a gazelle or whatever, you know what I'm talking about. It’s beautiful and sexy and brutal and…

“Ben.”

His dark hair falls over his brow as he glares at me, giving the vise one final crank, and I swear to God we have a moment, one of those mind-melds where he can see straight into my head and I can see into his…

As if catching my scent on the wind, he cocks his head and growls, “Get ready.”

My heart kicks into overdrive, and I run for the house, but not before I hear him mutter to Nines.

“You stay right there. I’ll be back in a bit.”

I run for the bathroom because I want to at least rinse the morning’s vomit from my mouth before Ben comes in and fucks the living shit out of me.

I turn on the tap and let the water run as I brush my teeth and avoid my own reflection.

Maybe I’m feeling a bit guilty about having a guy in the toolshed who just kinda got tortured and most definitely needs some serious medical attention.

But I know deep down the bloom of color in my cheeks is not from guilt.

Every pore in my body is _alive_ , pulsing with adrenaline or whatever it is that makes my skin tingle and my nerves flutter and my pussy clench like I’m fucking high.

I hear the roll of the garage door coming down, the slam of the trunk of the car.

He’s coming, he’ll be in any second.

_Get ready._

I spit and rinse and run for the bedroom, stripping out of my shoes and socks on my way down the hall. I’m leaned over pulling off a sock when Ben comes crashing into the house.

My pulse kicks wildly and I wonder if I should run for it, but too late, he’s here. He takes one look and hauls me by the waist straight to our room.

He throws me onto the bed, and I can feel the wildness rolling off him to smash into me. He’s unbuckling his belt and shucking out of his jeans, and I shuffle to strip off my shirt.

I’m not wearing a bra because bras bother my scar. Ben’s eyes turn black as night at the sight of my naked chest, and delicious, visceral fear pulses through my belly.

He tears off his shirt, pulling it over his head _almost_ slowly, so I have time to appreciate the play of muscle on display.

“Strip.”

My hands are shaking as I undo my pants, but he’s impatient, already ripping them down my legs in three rough tugs.

He shoves me back and my thighs fall open. I want him.

Without preamble, he pushes a finger between my legs and an animal growl comes out of him when he finds me sopping wet.

“Well. Aren’t you Daddy’s depraved little slut?” He’s shaking his head, mocking, as if I should be _ashamed_ of myself. “…you fucking _liked_ watching me fuck up that piece of shit, didn’t you?”

He strokes me again and climbs between my sprawled legs, his erection thick and heavy as he lays on top of me. His hot breath pushes into my mouth, swapping with my own air while he kisses me senseless.

I stroke my palms over hard muscle, up into his silky hair, over his shoulders. I pull my hands across his heated skin and try to tempt him closer by arching my back, pushing my breasts against him until my nipples are hard and he’s practically drooling from it.

But he leans up and hooks an ankle over his shoulder until I’m splayed wide open.

“Ben,” I whimper. I want him. _Now_.

“Why that one? Hmmm?” Ben’s eyes gleam with malice and I know to answer him immediately.

But I can’t. I shake my head.

“What did he do?”

Ben hovers over me and I try to catch my other heel around his hips, so he’ll shut up and fuck me.

“What did he do to you, baby girl?” Ben murmurs, stroking the head of his dick against me until a tear slips down my cheek.

“…he just…held me down…and I…” I shake my head again.

Ben licks his lips and he slides into me, hot and hard, in one solid stroke. We gasp together.

“Goddamn, you’re _so_ wet. You must really hate that fucker.”

I’d tell him how much, but Ben’s pulling out and thrusting in again, blurring everything except the sensation of him taking me, his hot skin gliding against mine, his mouth wet and eager against my leg, locked in place on his shoulder while he fucks me.

“I’ll make him pay…” Ben promises, dropping my leg and rolling his hips into me with all the force of a tidal wave. I sink my fingernails into his arms and grunt like an animal as he starts fucking me _hard_.

Fuck. Can something hurt and feel incredible at the same time?

“Gonna wreck this little cunt first,” he gasps. “Then I’m gonna go back out and give him a real bad day, baby.”

“…good…” I pant, digging my nails in harder, this time into the firm meat of his backside. Ben’s mouth lands on mine and he’s practically biting me, his tongue shoved rudely down my throat as his hips work into mine, harder, faster.

He’s working up a sweat, now, and so am I and we’re wet with it, slippery and hot. He rears back and drags my ankles onto his shoulders and levers into me like a jackhammer until I can’t think or breathe or move.

I whimper when he pulls out and flips me over, straddling my legs and slipping in from behind on a strangled groan. This angle feels unreal and we both are fighting to breathe, racing to the end before we suffocate under the pressure of mind-bending, primal lust.

His arm locks around my neck and I feel his hand reach around to stroke my clit until I’m gasping and squealing. “Gonna stuff you full of cock…make you come…then I’m gonna make a _filthy_ mess in your ass…how’s that sound?”

That sounds fucking perfect. I try to nod, but he’s got me pretty well pinned down, so I gasp a “…yeah…”

“Yeah?” His balls slapping against me makes the most obscene sound I’ve ever heard.

I grunt, “…yeah…” I can feel that perfect, _indecent_ tension building, tightening.

_…we’re the same…_

“…dirty girl…” he grinds out, biting at my earlobe and sending shivers up and down my thighs.

My orgasm hits me like a shot to the gut, hard and messy and endless, he’s growling and grunting over me, rubbing at my clit, and I bury my face in the mattress and scream until the wild pulses of pleasure fade.

Ben’s close and I got us so wet I barely feel the burn as he slides up and buries his dick in my ass, groping at my breasts so hard I know he’s going to leave bruises.

“…you… _nasty_ _bitch_ …” he chokes out. "...you...fucking love this, don't you?"

I keen, "Yes!" and I feel sharp teeth scraping at my neck and he’s dripping sweat and I don’t fucking care because he needs this, needs something to own, something just his, nobody else’s.

He shudders and heaves and sinks his teeth ever-so-gently into my shoulder as he orgasms and I’ve never felt so perfectly _used_. I lie beneath his hot, heavy weight, drenched in sweat and cum and sore as hell, and when I feel Ben slide out of me and flop to the side, pulling me against him back to chest, I smile as I recall his words.

_I’ll make him pay._

I know. I know he will. Ben is good at making people pay.

Only I’m not thinking about Nines.

Nines is as good as dead. There’s no coming back from a gut wound like that.

_Now there are three._

We doze off and I can’t remember the last time we took a nap together. But my whole body feels deliciously sated and safe in the heavy cage of his arms.

As the afternoon sun heats our room through the blinds, I dream.

_You almost took my eye out, bitch. I’m so going to make you pay for that._

I try to lurch up, but my arms are stuck behind me.

He’s handcuffed me, and he’s straddling me, pinning me into the tiles, pushing his hand into my face until all I have is a mouthful of blood and bitter hate, crushed beneath him on the bloody kitchen floor.

“You think you can bite the hand that feeds?” Something drips down the side of my face and I think it’s bloody drool, but I can’t be sure.

The knife moves out of my line of sight, and I feel the back of my dress being cut and ripped away. Goosebumps prickle over my skin as I wonder what the fuck he’s going to do.

It takes everything I have not to squirm with panic at the sensation of his leather belt sliding around my neck.

More bloody drool slides over my cheek.

“Think you can cut me and not get a taste of your own medicine?”

He’s so enraged, he’s actually salivating, foaming at the mouth like an angry dog.

I can feel the belt tighten just enough to partially restrict my breathing. He’s sitting on my butt, his muscled thighs trapping me, holding me still.

“I wouldn’t try to move those hands too much if I were you…”

The blow torch was bad, yeah. And getting smacked around is no picnic, either. But nothing, and I mean _nothing_ , compares to the feeling of a knife carving into your back. And he has to go really slow, take his time, you know? Because he isn’t just making random cuts.

Oh, no. Not Kylo.

No, he is making sure I know exactly who owns me.

My back is on fire, literal fire, and I can feel hot, sticky blood trickling out of me like water and all I can think is my sundress is ruined and I’m never getting any more treats, and this is all my fucking fault.

I’m so stupid. I’m so fucking dumb. I can’t stop bawling.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble over and over again, hot tears slipping down my cheeks. I know it’s useless.

Kylo isn’t in a forgiving mood today. He never is.

He sighs again and grabs a fistful of hair, and he’s dragging me to the bedroom, and I’m kicking and scratching and these pitiful little mewling noises are bubbling up out of me, animal-like.

“You just need to _learn_. I fucking own you. And I can take whatever I want, whenever I want.”

I jerk awake and I’m practically choking on the phantom pain until I remember, everything is fine. Ben is half on top of me, passed out.

I rarely see him with his eyes closed, and I watch him for a few minutes. His brow is pulled into a slight frown, as if, even in sleep, he’s tested by the weight of the world.

Maybe he is.

I tuck myself back into the crook of his arm and doze off again. 

I wonder how long someone can stay awake, holding his own guts in place while he waits for Ben to go back out and finish him. 

* * *


	13. Ignition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Kylo is not nice...but...maybe Rey isn't so great either...
> 
> [Bloodsport, Sneaker Pimps](https://open.spotify.com/track/4sLqcpvMrIJUyOs7x6fl5m?si=aPpB56bVRzuyLH-gjVnhaQ)

# Chapter Thirteen – Ignition

ig·ni·tion | \ ig-ˈni-shən \

**Definition of _ignition_**

**1:** the act or action of igniting: such as

 **a:** the starting of a fire

 **b:** the heating of a plasma to a temperature high enough to sustain nuclear fusion

 **2a:** the process or means (such as an electric spark) of igniting a fuel mixture

 **b:** a device that activates an ignition system (as in an automobile); put the key in the _ignition_

* * *

If you’ve ever been burned, _really_ burned, then you already know the absolute and utter dread of being burned again.

I made an exception for Hux.

I looked forward to it, and after Ben promised he’d do it for me, I became even more obsessed with the idea.

The whole week after he brought up me marrying him? Well, it was _awkward_. But he’d also promised to burn Hux off me, and _that_ I would hold him to, regardless of other...uncomfortable reminders.

Ben stayed quiet and friendly enough but there was still plenty unresolved stuff simmering between us. About my attack. His feelings. My feelings. And mixed in with all of it, an almost intolerable suspense burrowing into my mind like a sliver I could only pick at but couldn’t dig out. 

After D.J. everything had changed. Despite that, it was easy to slip into our familiar roles. But I couldn’t be that old Rey anymore, not really. I could feel myself slipping farther away from her and more into…

I don’t know.

After the night he brought up marriage and told me his side of the story, I had to do a lot of soul-searching. Maybe he’d been doing it, too.

But we only talked about the burn and how and when it would happen.

He stocked up on antibiotics and silver sulfadiazine cream. We figured I’d be out of commission for a couple of weeks while it healed, although I expected to be sore for longer.

He tried to talk me out of it.

“You could go into shock and die.”

“You could get an infection. It could kill you.”

But I held him to his angrily-flung promise and insisted I wanted that bastard’s name off me.

Things were okay _after_ , but...different. Even more different than after D.J.

Our unspoken truce felt shaky, like a dance we were both learning but not very enthusiastically.

But when I look back at that time? Well. I think we just needed to work through a whole lot of buried feelings.

And then we went to make Tasu Leech's life a bit of a mess and ended up taking out two more in the same day. Things were progressing, _finally_ , but it wasn't enough. 

After I killed a guy and saved Ben's life, and later, after he went back and finished off Nines in the toolshed, it occurred to me...

This would be right around the time our daughter would have been born.

 _If_.

Ben's already dumped Nines’ body somewhere and we have an early dinner. I’m in a weird fucking mood and I think he is, too. I don't know what he's thinking, and I don't want to ask.

Instead of talking, we avoid conversation. We haven’t discussed the baby or how I killed someone today or _anything_.

He is in one of his mercurial moods tonight, I can tell. Where he can flip from sweet teddy bear to murderous asshole faster than it takes to strike a match.

It is an absolutely _perfect_ recipe for disaster.

We finish washing dishes, planning to have an early night because Ben has to get up early for work.

“When are we going to finish the rest of the Plan?” I ask, deliberately nonchalant. I’m trying to keep my voice from descending into outright nagging.

He hums noncommittally and sets the last plate in the cupboard. 

I don't push the subject since I don’t feel like getting smacked upside the head for being mouthy, even though I can feel my own emotional turmoil fluxing beneath the surface, tangible and sharp.

I finish rinsing the sink and wipe my hands on the kitchen towel he offers, planting a somewhat fake smile on my face. I run my eyes up and down his frame, hoping for a hint of suggestiveness to come through in my gaze. I wonder if I can turn his eventual capitulation into immediate compliance with a little bit of sex.

His lips quirk in that way he has that tells me he knows _exactly_ what I’m up to and he is going to let me do my worst to try to weasel something out of him anyway.

I am volatile and out of sorts and this afternoon’s sex didn’t do much to alleviate my frustration with the agonizingly slow pace at which we are executing Ben’s Plan.

I want Hux _dead_.

I hate that that red-haired piece of shit is still walking around, breathing.

Plus, it was Ben’s fault I was attacked, his fault Hux’s name was ever on me in the first place. So, I want to punish Ben, force him to acknowledge it. To make him _look_ , really see what that beast did to me.

And despite everything he’d done _after_ …I haven’t yet found a way to forgive him. Not truly.

Still, Ben smirks at my ill-executed attempt to seduce him, swooping me into his arms and carrying me out to the living room sofa. He settles me into his lap with a hot kiss that admittedly steals my breath away.

“What’s going on with you tonight?” he murmurs. 

I gasp against his luscious mouth. He tastes good, like the wine we had with dinner. “I don’t know. But… _mmmmhhh_ , Ben!” He slips his hands under my t-shirt to play with my nipples until I grow rather horny and distracted under his calloused fingertips.

I twist my fingers into his hair, stroking the warm back of his neck until his eyes fall to half-mast, sleepy and content.

But _I’m_ not content. I’m restless. “Maybe I can be in charge tonight?” I hint, knowing he’ll never let that happen.

He shakes his head and chuckles arrogantly, “ _Hah_. I don’t think so.”

For whatever reason, his conceit annoys me.

I comb my fingers into his thick, silky hair and tug on it, just hard enough to get his attention. I feel the temperature between us rise, instantly heating by a few degrees. I push my tongue into his mouth and try for an assertive kiss, but he has a handful of my hair, too, and he's kissing me back just as aggressively.

I squirm against him and stroke my tongue over his, growling a little until he sits up, meeting me stroke for stroke. The more I try to be demanding and forceful, the more he matches my every move. We are edging closer to a cliff, playing a game of dare, and neither one of us is backing down.

Until he pulls back and gives me this sappy grin. For some reason, it’s even more annoying than his arrogance. “You really wanna be in charge, baby? Hmmm?”

He slides my t-shirt up and over my head, and I tug at his, wanting to feel his hot skin against mine.

“Maybe you can teach me how, _daddy_ ,” I whisper into his mouth, and this time the air between us snaps and sizzles with tension.

 _Ohhh. He likes that_.

Other than earlier today, he’s only said it a couple of times before, always in the heat of the moment, once on the day he took me and again the day he burned my arm with the blowtorch. I’ll never forget either of those occasions.

But I’ve never called him _daddy_ voluntarily. Especially after everything we’ve been through, that word carries so much meaning. More than I’d realized. I should have thought it through. Especially today.

He trembles a little, pulling back to glare skeptically into my eyes. 

A shiver runs through me at his x-ray stare.

To distract him, I pull at his t-shirt again, helping him drag it up and over his head before leaning in for another searing-hot kiss. Neither one of us bothers to close our eyes. It is as if…as if closing our eyes will break the spell.

His hot breath comes out in excited little huffs as I writhe against him.

His eyes narrow just a bit, and my blood pounds. I can tell he is thinking. So, I lightly scrape my nails down his pecs and abs, pushing the flat of my palm down the silky trail of hair running from his navel to his groin, until I reach the waistband of his jeans.

“…what are you after, Rey?” he coos softly, capturing my wrist in an iron grip before I can slide my hand into his pants. My pulse skips into double-time. This feels dangerous.

_How does he always know?_

“…nothing…” I lie. I can’t even _really_ articulate what I want, so maybe it isn’t such a lie after all. I slide my other hand around his neck and his grip tightens painfully on my wrist.

Slowly, agonizingly, almost, he cranks my arm behind me…and terror starts seeping under my skin. That roiling fury, ever just below the surface is bubbling up out of him like lava.

“I –” I want to say something, but I am stuck. Lightning-fast, he snags my other wrist and wrenches it behind me with a silent snarl.

Like a moron, I figure honesty might be the best policy.

“Where is the money? Why won’t you just tell me the rest of your Plan?”

His face falls and then freezes over into that horrible mask he wears when he’s utterly furious.

I should reiterate: He hates it, _hates it_ when I try to use sex to get what I want, if it's something he doesn't want to give me.

Nothing pisses him off faster or hotter than that.

He shakes his head and he murmurs sleekly, “This is all my fault. I’ve been taking it too easy on you. Letting you get away with being a spoiled fucking brat for way too long.”

I shake my head _no_ , but his fingers bite into my wrists and his black gaze lances into mine, diffusing dread through my bloodstream like poison. My arms jerk in his grip as I panic.

Dammit, _fuck_ , I flipped the wrong switch.

His voice goes all velvety and the heat rolling off him turns fucking scary-hot. “All right. I’ll _teach_ you.”

Tears prick behind my eyes and I try to stop what’s coming, even though I know it is impossible. “Ben…wait…that isn’t what I meant…I just want to know the Plan…what's...”

He rakes me with his fathomless stare and a sinister “… _shhhhh_ …”

I shut my mouth.

“See, the first thing we need to do is make sure you understand what happens when you push it. _Daddy_ doesn’t like it when you do that.”

I am shaking at the lethal promise in his voice, at the slightest emphasis on the word _daddy_.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper like an idiot. He _just_ told me to shush. I’m terrible at obeying.

I feel his fingers digging in so hard I know I’ll have black bruises circling my wrists in the morning.

“Open your mouth again and see what happens." His voice is soft with silken warning.

I bite my lips together. I can’t talk but I can plead with my eyes. A tear or two streaks down my cheek.

“Aww, baby girl, that’s not going to work. Not even a little,” he tuts, warm breath fanning against my face.

I’d forgotten this side of him. It’s my own damned fault.

It’s like those people you hear about on the news who keep boa constrictors as pets and forget how snakes are hardwired to not give a shit about anything but their next meal. And then everyone’s always so fucking shocked when the cold-blooded reptile eats the family dog. _Oh, yeah, Jim had that thing forever, called it his baby, but when Fluffy went missing, well, what did he expect?_

I suck back my tears in one long shudder and refuse to break eye contact.

He cocks his head, not angry, no. “You wanna play, baby? Is that it?”

The gentlest of invitations. But the barest trace of hope lies beneath.

Sharp relief floods me, as I finally, _finally_ understand.

He is and will always be a monster. I can’t change his true nature, but maybe I can…I don’t know, _channel_ it somehow…

If I can wrangle all that power into my hands, I’ll have…it will be _mine_ to control.

Does that even make sense? Like…if I can discover a way to harness all his brute strength and cunning, that wild rage always boiling in him, if I can direct it, I’ll have a real weapon, a real, dangerous _thing_ at my fingertips.

Like a trained attack dog.

I vaguely knew this even ages and ages ago, with Teedo...and in those days after Hux...

But now? I can see it so clearly. We are both bored out of our minds and have been dancing around each other so carefully for so long.

If Ben is going to be my very own pet monster, then he needs a continuous source of release. He needs to play hard and dirty and rough. It’s probably why none of his other so-called pets lasted very long.

And with me, after everything we’ve been through, he’s been holding it back for months and months.

Anyone who’s ever owned a dog knows what I’m talking about. Most dogs get dangerous when they’re bored. They need regular exercise and a constant outlet for their natural instincts to bite and chew and devour.

He needs a toy he can’t break.

And I know for a fact he could never break me. Not now.

He's watching me, considering. That same look he has sometimes, like he's trying to memorize me like a textbook. 

I harden my eyes.

Enough of this begging, pleading bullshit. It has never, _ever_ worked, not since the day we met.

_You're quite the little fighter._

I should have remembered. I should have _known_. He _wants_ me to scream. He _wants_ me to fight him.

_You can scream all you want._

“Yes," I hiss, "Let’s play.” His entire body tenses at my outright disobedience. “You should teach me a lesson I’ll never forget. Make sure it really _sticks_ this time.”

“What did you just say to me?” he whispers, and I can tell I shocked him.

I let my own not-unformidable rage pour through me until it blazes hot and furious, fueling my own sure knowledge of what to do.

Short of killing me, there is nothing he can do to me that hasn’t already been done. And he’ll never kill me. He needs me too much.

That thought burns my fear away as surely as if I’ve sprayed it with gasoline.

“You haven’t been hard enough on me, _daddy_.” I yank my hands out of his grip, and he is so surprised, he lets me go. Before he can stop me, I slap him, hard, raking my nails across his face viciously enough to draw blood.

He catches me before I can claw him again, growling, “Oh, baby girl, I don’t think you know what you just did.”

_No. I know exactly what I’ve done._

He flips me up and out of his lap so fast, I stumble. He uses my own impetus to tip me head down and over his shoulder. At this very precarious angle, I know if he drops me, I’ll land on my head and break my neck, but I feel reckless, so I kick my leg out.

_Kick me again and I’ll fucking kill you._

He swats me hard on the ass but doesn’t say a word. But I feel his entire body quivering with excitement, that indefinable electric energy seething forth.

 _Yes_.

He carries me to the kitchen, digs his handcuffs from his duty belt hanging by the back door and snaps, “All right.” He's so polite it sounds like a joke. “I’m game if you are.”

I hear the metal clink of his handcuffs and I kick again trying to squirm out of his grip.

He drops me and presses his knee into my back until I sprawl on all fours.

My knees are going to be sore for weeks from slamming into the kitchen tiles.

His dark chuckle sends a spike of fear through me, but I try to stand up anyway. He shoves me down again.

“ _Ooooh_ , this’ll be _fun_ ,” he purrs. “Do I need my leather belt, too?”

He sounds so… _stimulated_ and heat flares in my belly. “Maybe,” I choke, still trying to catch my breath. I fucking hate that belt.

I feel his hand wrap around my hair and jerk my head back so he can look down that long nose of his and scowl at me. “I’m gonna fuck you up, little girl.”

I choke down my fear and smile as sweetly as I can manage it. “You can try.”

And there it is, snapping between us like electricity, like a live wire buzzing with lethal voltage.

We understand each other. Perfectly.

He smiles at my words. That gorgeous, lopsided grin that belongs on the face of a fallen angel. But he doesn’t speak again. He just hauls me to our room, fucking _whistling_ and stooped slightly so he can maintain his grip as I scramble still half on my hands and knees next to him.

We get to our room, and he flings me in the general direction of the bed, but I am strong now, and more coordinated. I’ve been doing Pilates for ages, and I am well-fed, well-rested, and off drugs. I am probably healthier than I’ve ever been in my life.

For the briefest moment, I am glad I’m not using heroin. Because I am going to put up one helluva fight. And even though he will eventually overpower me with his sheer animal strength, if nothing else, I know I can probably get a few good licks in before he inevitably knocks the crap out of me.

Instead of falling meekly onto the bed, I use my own momentum to bounce back and aim for his legs, knocking him off balance. He sidesteps the worst of it, tripping over the laundry basket, and he laughs, actually _laughs_ as he lunges at me.

I roll and run for the dresser, for what I know is in the top drawer. Maybe we need to slow things down just a tad…

I pull the drawer open when his python-like arms wrap around me, yanking me back with pure brute force. Instead of trying to pry him away, I do something unbelievably stupid and effective. I turn my head and bite down as hard as I can.

“Goddamn it!” he roars, letting me go just long enough for me to snatch the revolver from the drawer and cock it. I am fast now, thanks to Uncle Lando drilling me every time Ben leaves me at the range.

The unmistakable click resounds through the room and echoes between us.

His chest heaves and he observes the bite on his arm. He cocks his jaw as if he can’t believe my audacity, shooting me this _diabolical_ sneer. “Honey, that fuckin’ hurt. I hope you think it was worth it.”

He glances again at his arm, where blood oozes from the bite wound.

I taste blood on my tongue and hope I took a good-sized chunk out of his arm.

His eyes glow like he is fucking possessed, and I debate shooting him here and now and saving myself what is sure to be a _very_ painful night. But we need to get this out of our systems.

“Now we’re even, _daddy_ ,” I snarl, tilting my head so he can see the very faintest scar from where he bit me. I am unbelievably turned on by the fact I’ve actually managed to draw his blood.

“Oh, no. _No_. We’re just getting started, baby,” he replies, so quiet and deadly my heart skips a beat. "You're not gonna be able to walk for _days_ after this...Promise."

I brace myself. I can handle whatever he dishes out. And then he does the one thing I was hoping he wouldn’t do. He brings Hux into this.

“You fight this hard when Hux came over?” he rumbles so quietly I almost can’t hear. It takes a half-second for his words to register.

_Oh, fuck, no, he did not just say that._

I am ready to blast his head off, and he is close enough I might have done it without too much thinking about bullet trajectory and all that shit, but I hesitate, and he grabs the gun so fast I don’t even know what happened.

I kinda forgot they probably teach cops how to disarm people and well, _shit_ …

He turns the gun on me, and it takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up.

“I fought,” I tell him, backing away, even though I have nowhere to go.

He shakes his head in disbelief and cranks his neck from side to side until I hear it pop.

He opens the chamber and empties the bullets onto the floor before he flings the gun away. I frantically try to recall if we have another one stashed away somewhere in this room…

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head again, like he doesn’t believe me, taunting. But I am not having it.

“Fuck you!” I screech, momentarily forgetting myself in the heat of wild rage. “I fucking _fought_!” I don’t think my voice sounds human. I am so, so angry.

“You think you could have fought off all six of 'em?” he goes on, caging me in and gripping my arms. He gives me a shake that should be rougher than it is. “You can’t even fight _me_ off…why are you…?”

“…and where the fuck were _you_?” I scream. “You should have…”

“Should have what? Been here?” He is standing so close I can smell his sweat and the faintest tang of blood.

He isn’t even denying it. I am floored.

Because yes. Deep down I blame him for letting it happen in the first place and doubly so because he wasn’t there to protect me. Comprehension dawns and I fucking hate myself for wanting to cry. 

He's right. I couldn't fight them off then and I can't fight him off now.

He shifts his grip on my arms, but I turn into a flurry of punching and kicking, and I’m pretty sure I land a few solid blows before my hands are inevitably wrenched behind my back and cuffed together.

He tosses me face down onto the bed and a very distinct memory flashes through my brain. Of the very first time he had me like this.

“So, what? You just laid there like this and didn’t even put up any resistance?” he snaps.

I feel his hands on me, yanking my jeans down my legs. He’s done this to me so many times, I just let him. But he is way too calm. And I'm not. 

“Maybe I _did_ ,” I taunt. “Maybe I was bored and wanted to know what a real man felt like…”

He laughs again, a short bark of mirth, followed by the wicked snap of his belt.

I wasn’t expecting the first lash and it _hurt_. I think I am getting him good and royally pissed off. _Good_.

If I'm furious, then he should be too.

“I’m not too worried about it,” he returns, mirroring my mocking tones. “We both know how much fun _you_ had that day, barfing up cum and getting stitched up from your cunt to your asshole…is that what you like, baby? I knew you were a sick little bitch, but that’s a bit extreme, even for you, isn’t it?”

I yelp more from surprise than pain at the next lash. But the third strike is enough to make me squeal and gasp.

Like a fool, I roll over, pinning my arms behind me and immediately hating myself when his belt slaps down hard across the tops of my thighs.

“OW!” I holler, glaring at him.

“Yeah, I’ll bet that one fuckin’ stings,” he agrees, pacing back and forth at the end of the bed. “Should I keep going?”

“I don’t know!” I snipe. “Am I still able to walk?”

His eyes sweep up and down my frame and turn pitch black and dark want writhes through me. He drags my feet over the edge of the bed and shoves a finger rudely between my legs.

“…fuckin’ slut…” he huffs when he pulls his finger away, slick with the evidence of my desire.

I look at the bite on his arm and lift a brow. “Glad you married me?”

“Baby, by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be lucky if you can remember your name, let alone whether we’re married.”

“You talk a big game, daddy,” I goad. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”

He tosses his belt to the floor and unzips his jeans, crawling over me until he is nice and close. My arms are going numb, but he is close enough I get a lucky shot when I smash my forehead into his face.

It hurts like hell, but when he reels back, I see the flesh under his eye already swelling and turning red. “Ooooh, that’s gonna leave a mark, _Kylo_.”

For some reason, this incenses him, but I’m not planning on stopping until I either come or he knocks me the fuck out.

He flips me over and growls, “You’re lucky I like your pretty face, bitch, or I’d return the favor. _Still_ …”

I wiggle my butt, drawing attention to the scars on my back. “…how’s the view from back there, daddy?”

He grunts.

So, I speak possibly the stupidest words ever spoken. “…Hux was there…did you know?”

“Shut the fuck up, Rey.” _Oooh_. That one hurt.

His hand wraps around my throat, and I keep going. I feel the hot slide of his dick pushing into me and squirm at the unexpected pleasure.

“Wait-!” I cry, but too late. He is already pumping into me, pressing down on my windpipe. “…m-m-fffuuu-hhhhh…”

“You say something, baby girl?” His hips slam into mine and his grip tightens.

I can feel the blood filling my face, trapped on its way back to my heart.

“…yhhhh…”

“What? I can’t hear you, baby.” He groans and I feel my body seizing up around him.

White lights spear behind my eyes as he reaches around and plays with my clit until I can’t fucking think straight. I’ve utterly forgotten everything, _everything_ except the delicious slide of his dick in my cunt, his sweaty body slamming into mine, his animal grunts echoing in my ears, and filthy-hot contractions that rip through me like a blade and I can’t stop it because I can’t fucking think or breathe –

He loosens his grip on my throat, and I pant and choke with a combination of relief and mind-bending pleasure.

“I said…” I cough, “…I forgive you…for not being there…”

“Really?” He fucks into me harder, hard enough to snap my head down into the pillows as I lay beneath him, limp and winded. “Why?”

“Because,” I gasp, “I _love_ you.”

“Fuckin’ lyin’ _whore_!” he bellows, enraged. His hand is back squeezing my neck and I surrender to the darkness this time. But before I black out, I feel a smile curling at my lips.

Because _that_ did the trick. Just like I knew it would.

I wake in the middle of the night as he slides my nightgown over my hips. I am _thoroughly_ sore and exhausted and still tied down with strips of t-shirt he’d shredded quite methodically hours ago, having made the executive decision his handcuffs wouldn’t work with our new headboard.

Apparently, he isn’t _quite_ done, yet. _Damn_.

I need to build my stamina.

“Wake up, baby girl,” he kisses against my ear. His breath is warm, and I press back against him, still in that murky place between waking and dreaming, and hoping he’ll hurry up and fuck me to sleep again. Except.

I’d actually _been_ dreaming just now.

_Hux was here._

Hux was here and I can’t get him out of my mind for some reason.

I freeze up and Ben senses it.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers softly. “You don’t wanna play with me anymore?” His grip on my waist tightens, ominous, threatening.

He senses my hesitation, and naturally, him being the overly-sensitive bastard he is, takes it the wrong way, rolling on top of me so quickly, my nightgown tangles, and I am pinned down by the fabric and him.

I can’t twist free and now he is gripping my throat, his hand big enough to compress the oxygen from my lungs in one squeeze.

The room is dark, and I feel his eyes on me more than see them.

“What’s wrong, honey? Not in the mood?” he asks again, this time squeezing hard enough to choke me. “That’s okay, you just lie back and let me do all the work.” I reach up to clutch at his wrist, trying to swat him away but I'm tied down, godammit and I can’t breathe.

I feel myself losing consciousness as he uses his other hand to roughly yank up my nightgown. He eases up on my windpipe and I suck in as much air as possible while he pries my legs apart.

He prods inside with a husky, “Good idea. Better breathe while you still can…”

“…love you…” I whisper, pulling as much oxygen into my lungs as possible.

His mouth crashes down onto mine, and I can taste the blood from where I split his lip by headbutting him after he took the handcuffs off.

I wonder if he’ll knock me out again for saying it.

But if I do wake up…I know _exactly_ how to get what I need. Finally.

It’s only a matter of time. Ben _is_ going to tell me where that cash is.

And that brick of Hosnian Prime, too.


	14. Delusion, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [To Be Loved, Pentagons](https://open.spotify.com/track/38lzzZV9M82wNw0eq7BDvc?si=sw70X8sDTC-ZBlDsV5qbng)

# Chapter Fourteen – Delusion, Part 2

de·lu·sion

/dəˈlo͞oZHən/

_noun_

  * an idiosyncratic belief or impression that is firmly maintained despite being contradicted by what is generally accepted as reality or rational argument, typically a symptom of mental disorder.



"the delusion of being watched"

_synonyms:_

| 

misapprehension, mistaken impression, false impression, mistaken belief, misconception, misunderstanding, mistake, error, misinterpretation, misconstruction, misbelief; More  
  
---|---  
  
  * the action of deluding or the state of being deluded.



"what a capacity television has for delusion"

_synonyms:_

| 

deception, misleading, deluding, fooling, tricking, trickery, duping

"a web of delusion"  
  
---|---  
  
* * *

When he burned my scars off, it hurt unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, ever.

Right before he did it, we talked about painkillers, but with my little heroin addiction, Ben was hesitant to introduce anything too strong, fearing I’d be more likely to relapse.

I knew he was probably right, even though it annoyed the hell out of me. I’d kind of been hoping he’d make an exception and let me have some heroin to help with the inevitable pain.

When he did it, I passed out halfway through. I fainted from the pain, and I remember my last thought was that I smelled like actual _meat_ cooking, like a seared pork chop or something, and wasn’t it weird how we eat animals and keep other animals as pets when we _are_ animals ourselves?

I woke to searing agony across my back. I wanted to scream and wail at the relentless pain, but I remembered Ben’s warning about not wanting to hear any “bellyaching” about it. So I let the tears fall but held my groans and moans to a minimum.

While I healed up, I spent most of the next two weeks on the sofa lying on my stomach, head turned to the side. I watched all kinds of TV and read my paperback novels and waited for Ben to come home from work and change my bandages and put the silver cream on my burn.

He left plenty of food and water within reach, but he’d missed so much work over the past months, he _had_ to go, and I was actually fine with it. I didn’t mind being home alone, so long as the .38 was tucked within reach under the sofa and I had the remote control to the television handy.

Ben came home every night and cooked us dinner and told me stories about work, either police work, which turned out to be rather boring as it was mostly paperwork, or his _other_ work, which I was rabidly curious about, although I’d have preferred to avoid the occasional shock when he’d mention names I’d grown to loathe.

Snoke. Hux. And the two others to be checked off my _list_.

I knew their names, now, too, thanks to Ben.

I napped a lot and dreamed about heroin and Ben’s stash of money, wondering where he kept it. It occurred to me one of the reasons Snoke’s guys tore up the house so thoroughly was because they might have been looking for it, or at least signs of further treachery from Kylo Ren.

I asked Ben if Snoke suspected how much he’d stashed away or if Snoke had any idea Ben had all that heroin. Ben told me if Snoke had even suspected we had as much cash or horse as we did, we’d both be _dead_.

Snoke’s little _message_ had only been a warning. Kylo had stepped out of line, using Snoke’s guys to deal on the side and killing Teedo. One of them had ratted out Kylo to Snoke, necessitating the message in the first place.

And Ben killed Teedo because of _me_. If I hadn’t tricked him into doing it, things might have turned out very differently.

Maybe that was another reason I wanted Hux’s name burned off. Because it reminds me.

Maybe that day had been all _my_ fault.

That gave me a lot to think about for a while.

I waited and thought and thought and waited, knowing the pain would fade eventually.

I know all about waiting.

~~~~

After the first time he choked me out, I came to, weakly. He’d been hovering over me, watching in the semi-darkness of our room. When I blinked awake, I couldn’t help it. I started crying, unsure if I was happy or sad to still be alive. He let me cry and silently helped me put on my nightgown.

I’d been disoriented and weak, and I was furious with myself for showing such fragility in front of him, even momentarily. He walked out of the room buck naked, leaving me half-conscious and propped up on the pillows. He was whistling again. I could hear him from the kitchen.

After a minute, he brought me a tall glass of water and an ice pack. He had one for himself, too, I noticed, and it sent a spiteful thrill down my spine.

I was feeling _quite_ happy he looked almost as beat up as I felt. Aside from the scar I’d given him ages ago, he had scratches on his face, a developing black eye, and an ugly-looking bite wound on his arm.

I hoped he was up-to-date with a tetanus shot.

He flipped the comforter over me and glanced at the handcuffs on the nightstand before meeting my eyes with his hooded gaze.

And I could read his fucking mind.

_We’re not done, yet._

I decided it was time for round two. He sat next to me on the bed and swooped in for a kiss, and that’s when I headbutted him.

He reared back, shocked. “Bitch, what the hell?” he thundered, flicking his tongue over his bloody lip with an angry scowl.

Inwardly I grinned. I’d split that pretty bottom lip of his wide open.

Which was awesome.

Well. He didn’t think so, but I sure as hell did.

Instead of answering his question, I lifted a brow and mocked, “I still remember my name…I thought you were going to really teach me a lesson, _daddy_.”

His eyes turned black as the pit of Hell, and I could feel darkness oozing from his pores to sink into me like clawed talons.

He told me I was the stupidest fucking cunt he’d ever met. But he was half-smiling. I think he was having fun, the sick bastard. 

Maybe I was, too. I don't know.

He picked up the handcuffs, and I held still, not wanting to exert too much energy until I had to. I could see him debating how to best apply them, but our new headboard wasn’t going to work.

Instead, he shredded a t-shirt and straddled me. He had to try hard because I was gonna make him work for it. I flailed and kicked and even got a few good slaps in before he got my hands tied down.

But, eventually, he wrenched my ankles apart and tied me spread-eagled with surprising efficiency, although he was out of breath, too, panting good and hard.

_Good boy. Wear yourself out properly, now._

He didn’t bother to strip me out of my nightgown before he climbed back on and fucked me senseless.

Right before his burly forearm smashed down onto my windpipe, I gritted out, “…I…stopped…taking my birth control…”

“Why?” he barked, his eyes scanning my face with unflappable calculation and the barest hint of confusion.

“…wanna have your baby…”

“Don’t. _Lie._ ” But even as he growled the words, he could see the truth in my eyes.

“…love you…”

He threaded his hands through my hair and kissed me so cruelly it felt like punishment, but he didn’t last much longer after that, collapsing half on top of me with a gratified huff and falling asleep almost immediately.

I dozed, too, and that was when he’d woken me again while Hux still lingered in my uneasy dreams.

I’d been disoriented, but conscious enough to figure out what I’d needed to do right before he’d choked me out again.

When I wake an hour later, untied this time, he is out cold. Exhausted, poor thing. 

I am out of tears and exhausted, too.

It is that hour of dark right before dawn lightens the sky, when everything is still and shadowed and suburbia sleeps quietly. The little sheep have no idea a wolf lives in their midst, nor will they, so long as they cling to the illusions of safety they have created for themselves.

I observe him, my beast, sleeping peacefully at my side. A handsome monster and I have him. _Almost_.

I very rarely catch him in sleep when I am awake. He looks younger, boyish even. I let him sleep until the light in the room changes just barely, hinting at a new day. 

I am already a disaster zone of bruises and welts on my legs and sore everywhere.

But. I can do a little more.

I wake him with the softest brush of curved fingers over his raspy cheek, lightly stubbled with morning whiskers.

I run my tongue along the cut on his lip, kissing him softly as if we are in love.

As if I love him.

Maybe at this moment, I do.

His eyes flutter open and he pulls me close, deepening our kiss into something hotter. Darker. I can’t help the faintest breath of pain from falling against his mouth as I whisper, “I _do_ want your baby. Make me pregnant.”

He rolls me beneath him with a quiet groan, kissing me as cautiously as before because his bottom lip probably stings like the devil.

His large, warm hands carefully tug at the hem of my nightgown, nudging my legs apart. I hiss as I feel him pushing inside.

The light in the room grows faintly, and I can see outlines and shapes rather than just shadows. He watches my face as he fucks me, slowly, methodically. I cling to his shoulders and whimper against him. Not because it feels good, but because every slide and push of him stings and burns and reminds me this is necessary.

_Just let him._

I am chaffed to hell and back and will probably be walking funny for days after all this.

But I let him do what he needs to do and moan encouragingly as he picks up the pace, his large hot body covering mine as we sweat and surge together in passionate effort.

And this time, as the pale light of morning enters our room, when he trembles against me and loses control, I whisper the words that will enslave him to me.

And he breathes them back against my lips. Hesitant. Vulnerable. But solid and clear.

“…I love you, too…”

 _Mine_.

I wake up and Ben isn’t here.

It hurts to breathe.

Dreams of heroin still flit tauntingly through my mind and like I do every morning, I pretend. I let myself imagine for just a few minutes Ben has left me a hit, waiting for me right next to my daily vitamin.

_I wish I had just a little bit…_

I miss it. And it would certainly help kill some of the aching discomfort slowly making itself known as I rouse myself from the void of sleep.

I’m sore, but I’ve been worse, with the possible exception of my throat, which is fucking _killing_ me.

That goddamn sonofabitch I married had his massive hands wrapped around my neck for half the night.

Still, I feel better than I’ve felt for a long time.

A quiet stillness lingers through the house like nobody else is home. I can hear the soft hum of the dishwasher running in the kitchen and birds’ raucous chirping outside.

_Wish I had some water._

I sit up. I’m so, _so_ thirsty.

I try to focus. He is not here.

I wonder how Ben’s feeling. He’s probably already left for work. I wonder how he’s going to explain the claw marks on his face. And the split lip and black eye. And the bite on his arm.

One of my finer moments, I’m sure.

I roll to my side and perch carefully on the edge of the bed looking for the glass of water he’d brought in last night. It’s not there, so he must have taken it back to the kitchen already.

The morning sun pours through the bedroom window, blindingly bright. He opened the curtains before he left, so I wake in sunshine.

I yawn, and my arms stretch overhead, black bruises encircling each wrist.

My aches and pains remind me I am mortal.

_And so is he._

My nightgown falls around my knees as I stand on shaky legs.

I shuffle to the bathroom to pee and it hurts. I think about last night.

It was simple, I realize. I’ve already convinced him to get Hux’s name off me. Now I am letting him mark his territory.

And I am going to be the most loyal bitch he’s ever seen.

He has to trust me, now.

Maybe not completely. Maybe not _quite_ yet. He’s a suspicious motherfucker. Has been since the day we met.

That’s okay. He’ll come around.

I think way back to the old Rey. The fortune teller who looked for clues and exploited the little bits she could scavenge from her customers.

I’ve got a few good guesses about Ben, and I plan to use the hell out of him.

There is a reason he is suspicious and doesn’t trust hardly anyone, not even his own mother.

He’s been told his whole life he’s worthless and bad, I would bet money on it. The only time he ever mentioned his mother to me he called her untrustworthy and spoiled.

That is something I can leverage.

I would further bet the only reason he trusts “Uncle” Lando is because Lando is the only connection to his past who treats him like a human being.

Either Lando doesn’t know Ben is a monster or he doesn’t care because he is one himself.

But I don’t get bad guy vibes off Lando at all. If anything, Lando reminds me a bit of myself. A bit of a con artist. A survivor.

I’m guessing he doesn’t have a clue what kind of bad shit his “nephew” gets up to.

Which is quite interesting.

And as for Ben’s _actual_ uncle? Luke? I’d asked about him a while ago. I was curious about the person Ben trusted to either usher me into the afterlife or put me back together again, one way or the other.

Ben got really quiet and just told me Luke “owed” him a favor…but I didn’t really get the sense they were close.

A doctor-turned-priest. That’s something.

 _Skywalker_. That name. I’ve heard it before. Lando mentioned it, and I’ve had to resist my increasing curiosity to ask about it every time Ben drops me off at the range.

Something always holds me back.

My thoughts turn back to Ben and his extreme and surprisingly _religious_ response to my attack and losing the baby. Not for himself, but for _us_. I’ve seen absolutely zero indication of him practicing any kind of religion. So, he must believe in _something_ just not for himself…

It fits with the idea he probably believes he is beyond redemption…

So…he _knows_ exactly how evil he is?

He must. That is _definitely_ something I can exploit.

But until he really digests the little lies I’m going to feed him, I know he will test his boundaries. He’s too smart not to.

He’ll be methodical about it, tactical. Strategically assess the perimeter for weaknesses, flaws, same as I did with the ankle monitoring bracelet.

Still, I am going to have to redirect his energy soon. I don’t have many more nights like last night in me, although I expect tonight won’t be quite so bad.

He’ll need reassurance. And my gut instinct tells me he will find some other way to test me.

So, when I go to the kitchen for a glass of water, I never expect his next test to be so blatant or so soon.

Or so fucking difficult.

Because sitting on the kitchen table?

Yeah.

Several stacks of cash in a neat little pile. It just might be about three-quarters of a million.

Which is enough to immediately send my pulse into a hard thrum.

But what I see on the _top_ of the pile? It knocks the air from my lungs.

I crack my neck and a full shiver runs through my entire body.

Because on top of that small mountain of cold, hard cash is a plastic-wrapped brick about the size of a pound of butter.

And I’d bet my fucking eyesight it’s not baking soda.

I don’t know how long I stand there staring at it. But it’s a while.

Eventually, I look over to the hook by the back door. Hanging alongside the lanyard with the toolshed key is another set of keys.

If Ben went to his “real” job today, he would have taken his patrol car.

Leaving our jet-black 1969 Mustang parked in the garage.

He brought it home one day after I got my driver’s license, right before we got married.

I have no fucking idea where it came from, but I am damn sure I love driving it. That car is _perfection_ , one of the most flawless American muscle cars ever designed.

Everything about it, the lines, the weight, the power…is just menacing enough to let you know you should keep your distance because a bad motherfucker owns it, while also inviting the eye to appreciate the utter excellence of line and form.

You might be surprised to know Ben lets me drive it _most_ of the time we go anywhere. He says I need to practice my driving until it feels like second nature, like shooting.

That Mustang is _fast,_ and it has a trunk, just big enough to hold a body.

My eyes cast back and forth between the car keys and the tempting stack of money and drugs on the kitchen table.

Remember when Ben first started leaving me alone in the house and I couldn’t even find a loose wire or a pen?

He’s way too detail-oriented to overlook the car keys hanging right there.

This is without question a test.

I have a moment of doubt.

If I fail this time, he’ll do so much worse than put a blowtorch to my arm.

So, I guess I just can’t fail.

I take a scalding-hot shower, careful of my bruises, pull my hair into a loose ponytail, brush my teeth and get dressed. I put on my shoes and socks and the denim jacket we picked out for me at Wal-Mart.

And then I take what I need from the little pile on the table and grab the car keys from the hook by the back door.

I don’t look back as I walk outside. I don’t need to.

Ben left me a message on a post-it note stuck to the steering wheel.

As I back the Mustang out of the driveway, I think.

It doesn’t hurt to think anymore.

I have several errands I want to run today, and if I’m efficient, I can accomplish all of them.

My first stop is to drive past my old shop. I’m feeling nostalgic and curious, and I have this vague need for belated closure.

When I drive past, it takes me a minute to recognize the place. It’s a Chinese restaurant now, and it looks busy. The smell of food wafts to my nose, and I almost go inside to eat a bite and check it out.

But I have too many other things to do, so I decide maybe another time. Besides, that life belongs to the old Rey.

I head a few blocks over and am pleased to find the pet store I remember still in business.

The smell of animals and sawdust and the faintest whiff of ammonia hits my nose as I push the door open. A jingling bell on the door brings a man out from the back room right away.

He shoots me a friendly grin and I try to smile. Little animals scurry in their cages as I approach the counter.

Being out in the world by myself again is much more difficult than I’d imagined.

Without Ben here to do all of the talking, I realize communication is all on me.

“Can I help you, miss?” the clerk prompts kindly.

I swallow and the scarf tied around my neck feels uncomfortably restrictive. Nevertheless, I smile and reply, “Actually, yeah. I’m looking for a collar.”

“Okay! For which kind of animal?”

 _Human._ “Um. A dog.”

“Large breed? Small?”

“Uh. Large.”

“Oh, yeah? I have a Great Dane. What breed do you have?”

 _Horrible monster._ “A…Mastiff.”

“Oh, I hear they are just gentle giants.”

I grin. “Yep.”

“Okay. Well, are you looking for something specific?”

“A shock collar,” I say firmly. “Just until he learns to stop barking at the mailman.”

I wonder if the clerk is secretly judging me, but he seems to take my comment in stride. “Sure do understand about that. Thankfully it usually only takes a few small zaps and they figure it out pretty quick.”

I keep the fake smile planted on my face while he pulls a box from the shelf behind him and proceeds to show me all of the features of the collar.

As he rings it up, we chat about the weather and he ends the transaction with a friendly, “Well! You should be all set and good luck with…oh! I’m sorry I forgot to ask! What’s your dog’s name?”

My teeth might show just a sliver too much and my eyes might be a touch too cold as I answer, “His name? His name is Hux.”

“Hux.” He nods. “Well good luck.”

I take a few free dog treats from the jar next to the cash register and tell him to have a nice day.

My heart is pounding, but the morning air is brisk and invigorating and I feel a renewed sense of purpose as I buckle my seat belt before I pull into traffic.

I go to the library next. I need to research something.

I want to know where I’ve heard the name Skywalker. It’s driving me _crazy_ and I think I will get some answers about Ben if I can figure out why the name has been bothering me.

I head for the bank of computers in the middle of the stacks and nobody else is around. I realize I don’t know what day of the week it is, but it must be a weekday because it’s quiet.

I sit in front of a computer and try to remember when was the last time I typed anything as I poke at the keys and hit “enter”.

I’m surprised at how quickly “Skywalker” pops up on Google.

And my pulse starts thrumming as I glance through the first few headings.

I take a breath and look around, but nobody is watching or gives a shit about what I see. Nobody understands the significance of what I’ve just discovered.

It’s sitting right there, right in front of me in plain black and white, and I briefly consider running for the Mustang and driving far, far away.

But Hux is still out there in the world converting oxygen to carbon dioxide and I just can’t let that fucking go.

I take a few minutes and read, clicking on article after article, and there’s not a ton of new information as I make my way through them because it all happened long ago.

By the time I finish reading, I’m not sure how long I’ve been holding my breath.

Ben’s grandfather, it _must_ have been his grandfather. Anakin Skywalker. Husband and father.

And a real goddamn serial killer.

Sentenced to death by lethal injection for the brutal murders of twenty-seven women.

Actually, they could only _link_ him to the twenty-seven. But he’d been suspected of at least fourteen more.

Holy fucking shit.

My hands are shaking, and I decide I can’t stop now.

I type in the name Benjamin Solo.

Again, the results are surprisingly quick to appear on the screen.

The only relevant links are a local newspaper article and a single, grainy news video clip from about fifteen years ago. Ben would have been around sixteen, I think. Yes, there it is –

I read the article first, and then I click on the video. The sound is muted – speakers are not allowed in the library for obvious reasons, but the closed captioning on the screen and the manic look in the eyes of the woman being interviewed is enough.

Ben’s father, Han Solo, was killed in a hunting accident when Ben was sixteen. It made the local news but was quickly hushed up. But not before –

Ben’s own mother…

Oh, wow. No wonder he hates her.

That woman, I decide, is a real piece of work.

What kind of mother demands her sixteen-year-old son be tried as an adult for murder?

That’s a whole new level of cold-blooded, even if we are talking about someone like Ben.

But then I think about the Skywalker family, the legacy of Ben’s grandfather. I think about what Ben is capable of, the brutal violence and bloodless lack of empathy. 

Maybe not so sick after all.

I’m not able to find much more on Ben other than he was obviously cleared of all charges and the records were sealed because he was a minor.

Nobody seemed to connect sixteen-year-old Ben with his notorious grandfather, either. Interesting.

I type in one last name before my fifteen minutes of computer time expires.

But nothing at all comes up for Luke Skywalker. As far as the internet is concerned, he’s a ghost.

I exit the library, deep in thought. I decide I have plenty of time for a haircut. I haven’t had one since before Ben and I met.

And I need better clothes. Wal-Mart is well and good for some things, but I want some _nice_ things to wear. After everything I’ve been through, I figure I deserve some quality clothes and maybe some shoes that won’t fall apart after a month or two. Maybe some nice boots like Ben’s.

I took a healthy stack of cash from the table this morning. We can afford it.

I’ve never had money in my life, and I want to find out if I love spending it as much as I love driving the Mustang.

Turns out, I do.

It’s early evening by the time I head home. Ben’s police car is parked in front of the house so I can pull the Mustang right into the garage.

He’s already home.

I’m nervous about his reaction, but I think I’ve read the situation correctly.

He knows I’ll come back, so long as I have something to come back to. Same as him.

I look again at his post-it message.

_Dinner’s at six, and then we’ll talk. -XXX_

Sure enough, when I walk through the back door, he hardly bats an eye.

“Sorry I’m late...I had a few errands to run.” I keep it casual, even though my heart is pounding. I set my shopping bags on the now-conspicuously-empty kitchen table.

He’s cleared away the money and drugs, and I’m glad because that heroin would have been distracting as hell.

He still might react very badly to coming home and finding me gone, not to mention missing a small pile of cash and his vintage, cherry, muscle car, worth a small fortune in itself.

But my worries evaporate almost instantly.

He’s in a _fantastic_ mood. He’s making dinner and it smells delicious, but when he catches sight of my new haircut and outfit and makeup, he pauses his stirring and gives me a rather possessive head to toe perusal and a low, long wolf-whistle.

“Well don’t you look pretty?” His voice has gone all husky and sexy.

My heart skips a beat as he saunters over to me and pulls me against him for a slow welcome-home kiss. He smells divine and he tastes like the risotto he’d been stirring. I only tremble with a _little_ bit of fear when I remind myself what he, what his _bloodline_ , is capable of.

I can never, ever forget he’s a dangerous beast.

“ _Mmmm_. Thanks,” I murmur a little more breathlessly than I might have expected. My hair is super-short now, but I want a fresh start. Besides, I did ask the stylist to leave enough for him to yank on when we’re fucking, so it should be fine.

His eyes land significantly on the scarf tied around my neck, covering the worst of my bruises. “Anybody say anything about that?”

 _Yeah. Everyone who looked at me._ I could see judgment and concern in people’s eyes, even though the only person to ask out loud about it was the hairdresser as she draped the salon cape over my shoulders right before she cut my hair.

I grin and roll my eyes. “I just told them my husband and I like rough sex,” I murmur, letting him sweep in for another kiss. He’s careful, I’m sure in no part because the cut on his lip still looks swollen and tender.

This time he hums and carefully unties the knotted scarf from my throat. I swallow involuntarily because even the slightest pressure is uncomfortable. I wonder if he’s planning on doing more of the same tonight and hope to God he isn’t.

Lightly, he traces a finger over the marks he made. His eyes darken a bit, but with concern.

He kisses me again, this time so gently and sweetly I just sort of melt against him. 

“Maybe not so rough _all_ the time, baby…” He draws back an inch and his eyes sparkle into mine, more butterscotch than devil-black for a change. He holds me there, leaning into him, bending me back just slightly in his steely embrace.

“You like my hair?” I ask, suddenly shy and self-conscious. “It’s so short, but…”

“You’re beautiful,” he replies, burying his nose against my hair and inhaling deeply. “And you smell good enough to eat.”

_Test passed with flying colors._

And now for the _real_ test.

Not his. Mine.

I push my fingers into his hair and kiss him back, then I lean away just slightly and smile. “I bought you a present.”

He cocks his head, an odd gleam in his eyes.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the thing I found at the pawn shop next to the hairdressers.

His breath catches and I slowly drape it over his head. He’s tall, but he ducks for me so I can reach.

_Good boy._

His fingers tremble over the little golden crucifix, and I press it against his chest. The chain is too long, and we will have to resize it.

He picks up the little cross and examines it for a few seconds. 

“Why?” he asks hoarsely.

 _Because you’re my monster._ “Because. I love you.”

Maybe the chain is only symbolic, but it’s me who put it around his neck.

When he flashes me pouty smile, I know I’ve got him right where I want him.

Especially after he replies with the softest of smirks, “I know.”

He’s mine. My monster, my other half. I belong to him and he belongs to me.

And now that I have him on a leash? I am going to make him do terrible things. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder to check out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/69Wv2dT2a1hmW31gS9WG0v?si=5Q9F7sybQU-ARvFsX6xInQ) if you haven't yet! It's super fun and I update it pretty regularly...
> 
> XOXO my darlings!!! As always, your kudos and comments give me LIFE. *hugs*


	15. Erosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder. This is a dark story with dark themes.
> 
> [Angel, Massive Attack](https://open.spotify.com/track/7uv632EkfwYhXoqf8rhYrg?si=u49hsatgQeCUiOAQDU9l9w)

# Chapter Fifteen – Erosion

e·ro·sion | /əˈrōZHən/

_noun_

  * the process of eroding or being eroded by wind, water, or other natural agents.


  * the gradual destruction or diminution of something.



* * *

Dinner is tasty, as always, and I wonder where Ben learned how to cook.

Before we met, the extent of my culinary expertise went about as far as knowing how to boil water for ramen or how to microwave tortilla shells with shredded cheese. Vegetables were rare and quality protein was usually chicken nuggets from the drive-thru if I could afford it.

Ben likes to shop at Whole Foods and buy organic. Although we do take out on occasion, he frequently and sagaciously likes to remind me it’s all about balance.

We’re having a peppery arugula salad and risotto and I casually ask him who taught him how to cook.

I’m curious because the crazed woman screaming in the video clip I watched earlier at the library didn’t strike me as the homey-chef type.

Surprisingly, Ben replies his uncle taught him.

“Lando? He doesn’t seem like someone to sweat over a marinara sauce all day,” I chuckle, thinking of Ben making sauce just last week and how it literally took him all day.

“…no not Lando. Uncle Luke.” Ben’s gone quiet, but not scary-quiet. I sense he’s about to reveal something rather profound, so I hold my tongue.

Finally, he says, “I lived with Luke for a while…before my father died.”

“You said Luke used to be a doctor. Before he became a priest?”

I hold out my glass for more wine. He pours and continues, “He was still practicing medicine when I lived with him. All about healthy eating…keeping the body pure…”

“He’s your mother’s brother?” I ask, not sure how much he will let me pry out of him before he shoots me down.

He nods affirmative and pours more wine for himself.

When he changes the subject, I let it go, because his next words are about the Plan, and I am instantly distracted.

“So. Nobody knows you’re still alive. And we’re going to leverage that,” he tells me nonchalantly.

“What do you mean?” I take a bite of risotto. It’s delicious.

“I mean Snoke and Hux and everyone else assumes you died that day,” he replies matter-of-factly. “And I’ve let them carry on that assumption. Mostly because I think if they knew you were alive, they’d come back here and finish the job. Especially Hux.”

That thought sends a thrill of terror down my spine and the hand holding my wineglass trembles.

“So, I’m thinking before we take out Snoke, we have to get rid of Hux, first,” he tells me around a mouthful of arugula. He’s watching me. Evaluating. “You think you can handle being the bait this time?”

“Bait?”

A wave of darkness rolls off him, and it occurs to me how eagerly he anticipates dispatching Hux to hell.

I smile and my hand magically steadies. Ben won’t let that fucker hurt me. He's mine. 

“I can handle it,” I murmur, taking a sip of wine and locking eyes with his. “What do you need me to do?”

We can’t very well just march onto Hux’s turf and demand he comes with us. He’ll be surrounded by his henchmen, and he’s not stupid. He’ll be armed no matter where he goes, same as Kylo usually is.

Which means we need to catch him when he’s _not_ armed.

Which means I have to meet Snoke.

Snoke is a suspicious fucker, worse than Kylo. He won’t let his guys anywhere near him if they’re armed. No guns, no knives, nothing.

The only weapons allowed are the perimeter security guards’ and Snoke’s.

I step out of the bathroom and twirl once for Ben’s perusal.

I’m wearing the skimpy outfit Ben found for me from god-knows-where and way too much makeup.

He scans me critically. My stomach does a flip-flop. He looks dangerous, wearing dark jeans, motorcycle boots, and a beat-up black leather jacket studded with spikes.

It reminds me of… _no_. _Is it?_

“Did you take that jacket off of _D.J._?” I hiss. I’m not sure if I should be outraged or disgusted. His lip curls into a wicked grin and he crooks his finger.

_Come here._

He bites his lip as I stand obediently in front of him. The slap comes out of nowhere, hard enough to send tears stinging my eyes.

“Cry.” His eyes glitter with fathomless command and it’s never been easier to let a few tears roll down my cheeks, ruining my eye makeup. He grips my face and pulls me in for a ravenous kiss, smearing my lipstick and mussing my hair.

Ruthlessly he spins me and bends me over the back of the sofa, growling, “Hold still, baby.”

He yanks my skirt over my hips, and I feel him tuck something into the back of my thong.

He pulls my skirt back into place and gives me a light smack on the butt. “What do you say if anyone asks what that is?”

“It’s mine.” I sniff. My cheek hurts, but I won’t question Ben.

“Good girl. Let’s go.”

I’m nervous. We’re headed to meet with Snoke in the back room of some ancient Italian restaurant downtown, and I have to remember Ben is Kylo again, Kylo, _Kylo_ …

_Say the name Ben Solo in front of my friends? And you will die. Slow and hard._

I glance to the side but Kylo looks straight ahead. I am a doll, decoration, a piece of meat. Another one of Kylo’s junkie girlfriends he couldn’t trust to leave on her own, and he’s pissed about it. Hence the slap.

Apparently, my husband has a type. Oh, I’m definitely asking him about this later, believe me.

But for now? I am not to make eye contact with or speak to anyone but Kylo.

My heart is going to beat right out of my chest, and I’m glad the young man giving me a half-assed pat-down appears enormously intimidated by Kylo’s possessive glower.

The guard doesn’t get too handsy, and my outfit is so tight, I’m obviously not hiding a gun or a knife…

After my pat-down and Kylo’s much more thorough one, Kylo drapes his leather jacket over my shoulders and I fight not to cringe in disgust.

I am going to make him burn this fucking thing when we get home.

We make our way down a stale, dank corridor, and Hux lounges against the wall, apparently waiting for us.

I am not expecting to see Hux so soon. For some reason, I pictured him vaguely in the background, not within feet of me. My stomach threatens to upheave itself and I swallow down my sudden fear. But we are walking and Ben, wait _no_ , _Kylo_ , greets Hux with lukewarm dislike.

Apparently, my presence is not unusual enough to raise eyebrows, as Hux barely notices me. In fact, he doesn’t even recognize me.

While part of me rages that this red-headed piece of shit likely hasn’t given me a moment’s thought since _that_ day and I’ve given him many, _many_ moments of thought, the other part is glad he doesn’t realize who I am.

He will. Soon enough.

I need to focus my attention on Kylo right now.

The armored door slants inward at the slight push of Kylo’s hand. Hux strolls just behind him, slightly ahead of me, taking precedence. He’s showing me my place.

I follow meekly behind as they move to stand before Snoke.

I stare at Kylo’s boot, down and to my right, not glancing up when Snoke starts talking.

Snoke’s voice is pleasant and gravelly as he gives instructions to his men. Ben promised these meetings are very short, and he wasn’t wrong.

The only acknowledgment of my presence is a gentle chuckle and a lightly murmured, “Oh, another little dove to add to your collection, Ren? How utterly charming.”

I can feel Snoke’s eyes crawling over me and the sarcasm in his tone, and Kylo mutters something about stupid whores who can’t be left alone.

“And yet you always seem to fall for their charms, Ren. Well. This one looks true to type if nothing else…”

I try desperately to keep my eyes downcast, as if in a drugged stupor or just stupid.

Hatred pours into my gut like acid and I silently remind myself Snoke’s days are numbered.

But Hux first.

And the other two.

I stand quietly while Snoke talks. I let my mind drift, sure that if I listen to that oily voice for much longer I am going to betray myself.

I’m genuinely surprised when the meeting ends and Kylo grabs me by the arm to usher me out in front of him. My heartbeat kicks up.

It’s time.

Hux follows us, and now for the tricky part.

We walk back down the corridor, past security, to the parking lot, where Kylo strategically parked so we will reach our car before Hux’s.

We are walking in a small group, not out of friendliness or necessity but simply on a shared trajectory. Kylo and Hux do not speak. We are almost there, when, as planned, I take off the jacket.

To reveal the words cut into my back.

_Property of Kylo Ren._

“What the-?”

I hear rather than see Ben whirl and grapple Hux to the ground, while I pull the loaded syringe from the back of my underwear and uncap it.

The exquisite feel of a needle in my hand again is almost too much, but Ben grunts, “Hurry up,” and I don’t hesitate to plunge whatever’s inside directly into Hux’s neck.

His eyes roll back, obscuring the naked terror there just moments before.

I run to pop the trunk of the Mustang, and Ben stuffs him inside with ridiculous ease.

When we get home, Ben leaves Hux in the trunk in favor of jogging around to the passenger side of the car and lifting me out, carrying me like a baby into the house, straight to the bedroom.

He pulls my skimpy dress over my head and sets me cross-legged in the middle of the bed. I am relatively compliant. In shock, I think.

_Hux is here._

“Will he wake up and get loose?” I worry. My voice quavers and I hate myself. Ben strips out of his own clothes.

“Not for hours. Not with what we gave him.”

“Oh.” I guess Ben, being a drug dealer, would probably know.

He shakes out his hair and runs a haughty gaze over me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice is wobbly, but I think I’m okay. It’s just leftover adrenaline.

Hux is here, locked in the trunk of our car, parked in our cute little detached garage with little exes on the doors, just another charming little suburban detail that fits in so well in this pleasant family neighborhood.

“Come here,” Ben murmurs, and I kneel, scooting to the edge of the bed. He leans in and kisses my neck, hot and open-mouthed as he drags my underwear down my thighs. “Now, honey, I’ll let you help me get started on him, but I think you should stay in here for the worst of it, okay?”

“Why?” I don’t necessarily _want_ to watch him kill someone, but I’m curious.

“Baby, I don’t want you having nightmares again.” He looks stern and I nod in agreement.

He’s probably right. It’s enough to know whatever he’s going to do to Hux will be enough to cause nightmares. That means it will be bad. _Good._

“Okay,” I whisper.

“And after we finish this, maybe we should have a honeymoon or something. What do you think? Maybe go somewhere warm, get some sun?”

My heart starts pounding under my ribs. If we go somewhere warm and I wear a bathing suit, everyone will see my scars.

But sunshine does sound nice. We can figure it out. “Okay. That sounds really good…”

His large, warm hands sweep over the marred skin on my back to cup around my rear and pull me into him.

His plush mouth settles against my lips, hot and hungry and demanding and I open for him. His wet tongue slides against mine, his breath mixing roughly with my own ragged gasps.

“You did so good, baby girl…”

I smile at the pride in his voice.

“So, did you,” I tell him. _My good beast._

I lean in to kiss the little golden cross against his chest and his arms tremble around me as I rub against him, enchanted by the sensation of skin on skin. His muscles flex under my hands and…I _want_ him.

He growls and kisses me again, open-mouthed and ravenous, and it’s like _fire_ , the heat from his body and the smell of him and the taste. I rub my palm over his erection, caressing the wet tip with my thumb until he’s panting against my throat and digging his fingers into my hips.

I drag my fingernails over his pecs and up his neck until he arches into my touch like a big, sleek cat.

“Ben…please…won’t you?”

“…won’t I _what_?” His voice has gone all raspy and deep and it sends slithers of want right to my womb.

“Please…” I whimper. I’m wet for him and I can feel his hardness prodding against my belly. “…I want…”

He flips me onto my back with an arrogant smirk and pulls my thong the rest of the way down my legs.

I watch as he wraps a hand around his dick and pumps it a few times. “This what you want?”

I nod eagerly.

“What is it about death and torture that makes you such a slut?”

I’m already sprawled on my back, but at his words, I spread my legs and watch his eyes grow heated as he licks his lips and stares at my pussy.

I arch my spine, pushing my chest up and whisper, “ _Please._ ”

He clambers onto the bed, kneeling and grabbing me beneath each knee to fling my legs farther apart. He falls forward, jostling the mattress to brace one arm next to my head, so he can use his free hand to drag the tip of his dick between my legs. I moan and press closer.

He aligns himself and pushes in, bowing to kiss my breast as he thrusts inside with punishing slowness.

I hook my ankles around his hips to hold him there, but he pins my wrists and he’s fucking into me so slowly and brutally I twitch and jerk against him, heaving for breath and begging for more.

“God, you’re so wet, baby…” His hips roll sinuously into mine, pumping into me in a languid assault. God, he's stroking me just right and it's _filthy_ how good he feels...

“Ben!” I shudder. “Fuck!”

“… _mmm_ , you like that?” he purrs. “Daddy’s cock in your pussy?”

“… _yes_ …”

“Feels good?”

“…feels so good,” I promise. It does feel good.

“…know why?”

I moan.

“…because…we’re...the... _same_ , you and me…” His whispered words sound so _certain_ , so _adamant_.

I clench down on him and he gasps against my hair. He picks up the pace a bit, until our bodies slam together with rhythmic force. He’s doing these throaty little masculine grunts every time he bottoms out, and I’m going to fucking _come_ just from those noises.

He pulls my hair until my head is locked in place and hisses viciously in my face, “This is _my_ little fuckhole, and I’m gonna fill it up with daddy’s cum. Is that what you want?”

“…yes!” I squeal, meeting his eyes with wild desperation, and he’s pounding into me and I’m gripping him with my thighs and my cunt and my _everything_ because he can’t fucking stop or I’ll die.

“Please please please…please don’t stop…”

“I’m not gonna stop,” he croons, licking and scraping his teeth along the side of my neck.

I can feel my thighs tighten and my pussy flooding with that glorious warm _pull_ and dark, endless ripples of heaven hit me in hard, savage waves. I feel him hot and solid, bearing down on me and I imagine my cunt squeezing him dry, milking his dick until he’s gasping and shaking, sweat-slick and quivering.

“…oh, _fuck_ , I’m gonna come so hard…” he chokes, shuddering against me, crushing me into the mattress as he gives me a few final pumps.

His damp forehead presses against my neck and I whimper.

His mouth is hot and wet against me when he murmurs hoarsely, “I think I just knocked you up.”

I think he might be right.

“Good.” I whisper it against his shoulder, clutching him to me, unwilling to give up the weight of him. Pressing me down and away from reality.

But he moves eventually. I roll to my side and stare at the wall, listening to Ben getting dressed and whistling lightly as he goes outside to get Hux and take him to the toolshed.

I doze off and after a little while, I feel him settle next to me and my eyelids flutter lazily open.

“Wake up, baby.” He’s smiling softly down at me and my own lips quirk into a lopsided grin. He strokes a lock of hair from my face. “Wanna help Daddy kill a bad guy?”

_Fuck, yes, I do._

I’m wearing a t-shirt and shorts when Ben carries me into the toolshed. The familiar smell of oiled rags and tools and WD-40 and something slightly rancid, like rotting meat, hits my nose and I close my eyes and bury my face against his neck.

I’m not sure I’m ready to see what I know is waiting for me.

Ben sets me up high, and I feel scratchy wood beneath my thighs. I’m sitting on the workbench. Ben kisses me gently on the cheek and whispers, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

_You’re not alone._

I open my eyes and I see Ben. He needs a shave, and he has circles under his eyes. I wish he’d sleep more, but he claims he doesn’t need it. But he’s looking back at me and his eyes scrunch at the corners and I realize he’s trying to comfort me. And he looks so open, so earnest and reassuring, I take a shaky breath and shift my gaze to the person sitting beyond.

Hux is tied to a wrought iron chair, gagged with what looks like a dirty rag from Ben’s workbench. He doesn’t look so scary stripped down to his underwear, zip-tied to cold metal. Ben is watching my reaction and pats me on the leg.

I take a breath. _Hux is here_. But not for long.

Ben starts talking and methodically pulling tools from various shelves and boxes around the workbench.

“I have some things I need to say to you. And I hope you listen. They’ll be among the last words you hear…and when I stop talking, well, I suppose that means you’re about to enter your own worst nightmare, with me as your personal escort.”

He lines up his tools neatly on the workbench as he speaks. A ball-peen hammer. A long screwdriver. Some twine. A hacksaw. A soldering iron.

“You might argue you were acting under Snoke’s orders when you did what you did, and that’s fair enough. But, when you decided to take things as far as you took them with Rey, well, I think that showed a real lack of judgment on your part.”

Ben pulls a handful of wood screws from a box under the workbench and sets them next to the hammer.

Hux’s eyes meet mine. His narrow with spite and I smile and mouth, “You’re fucked.”

“See, what you didn’t account for is _her_. You thought she’d kill herself over you, _you_ , a coward who couldn’t do it himself…and you made a huge fucking mistake. She might be some dumb junkie slut to you. But to me? Well…it’s because of her I’m still alive.”

 _What? Oh._ He’s right.

“After your little house call, I was ready to come for all you bastards, guns blazing and fuck the world. And I expect you would have killed me. Eventually. But she wouldn’t let me go. Made me stay, gave me something to live for, same as I did for her.”

I’m riveted by Ben’s sudden loquaciousness.

“’Scuse me, baby,” Ben mutters, reaching past my head to pull a utility knife from the shelf behind me.

Hux grunts something unintelligible, but it could almost have been a “fuck you” or some similar last-ditch effort to inspire Ben’s infamous temper.

Perhaps he’s hoping Ben will lose it and kill him in a moment of impulse. But Hux doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how Ben was _made_ for this. How he’s in his element now, and how nothing, nothing short of a bullet to the head will stop him from his intended trajectory.

Sure enough, Ben just shakes his head and keeps talking.

“There are two types of animals in this world. The ones who will do anything to survive. And the ones who rule them. I’m betting you think you’re in the second group. And that’s where your mistake comes in.”

Ben moves to crouch in front of the monster who killed my baby. They are eye-to-eye like this, cold merciless blue meeting deadly black and gold.

“You pissed off the two people in the world you can’t afford to piss off. One of us? Might have been able to let it go. But the two of us together? Nah. Like she said. You’re fucked.”

Ben glances over to me, and I am hypnotized. I’m floored. Ben’s right, but I never would have credited him for so much insight.

He returns his attention to his quarry and leans in, menacing. A wolf baring its teeth. Hux tries to shift away.

Ben growls, “Killing is in my blood. Generations of it. And they’re in her now, too.”

I shiver, knowing _exactly_ what he’s referring to, even if he doesn’t _know_ I know.

“You might say killing is my destiny. That doesn’t mean I don’t have an appreciation for human life…I do,” he says whimsically. “I revere it. I love…holding it in the palm of my hands. I… _dream_ about it, think about it all the time…And, well, at one point, I helped make one. A life.”

I suck in a slow breath, not wanting to disturb the air and break the spell.

Ben has his gaze locked on his prey, though. “Now that? _That’s_ power. The power to give life, not just take it away. And you need to understand when you take something that doesn’t belong to you, well, then you have to pay extra hard. And we’re _gonna_ make you pay for it.”

His eyes meet mine and he drawls, “I’m tempted to do to you everything you did to Rey that day…down to the _letter_.” He pauses for effect and Hux flinches, turning pale under the gag wrapped around his face. “…but since the thought of ripping you a new asshole kinda makes me sick, I’ll just have to be a little more _creative_ …”

A chill sneaks under my skin as I watch Ben pull his lethal-looking hunting knife. He paces around to stand next to me, raking me with his homicidal stare, and rumbles, “I’m a perverted sonofabitch, make no mistake. You can ask my wife, she’ll tell ya…but she’s something else altogether. ‘Bout as depraved as it gets.”

He stabs his knife into the wooden workbench next to my leg, startling me with his sudden ferocity of action. I only jump a little.

He reaches for something on the shelf behind me and he’s holding the shock collar I bought. I realize he knew what it was for without me having to tell him.

_Good boy._

I lick my lips and can’t break eye contact. We have a moment of communion.

It’s crystal fucking clear.

Ben says we’re the same.

Maybe we aren’t so different.

I smile, just a hint, and he gives me the briefest flash of acknowledgment before he tears his gaze from mine and turns to Hux, who watches us with increasing alarm.

“Now me? I usually keep it old school. Simple. Cutting, bleeding, screaming, dying. That’s how it usually goes. But with you? Well, see, she–” he nods his head at me and holds up the shock collar with a cocked brow. “–she went to the store all by herself and picked this out just for you. Special. So we gotta let her have her say…since she’s kinda the reason you’re still alive, too.”

Hux looks at me, confused, and Ben chuckles, “Oh. That’s not a good thing. Not for you."

He sets the collar on the workbench and lifts a brown paper bag.

“Now, I have this leather belt I like to use for choking, but, well it’s kind of special, seeing as I only like to use it on my darling girl. When she misbehaves.” He catches my gaze and winks, slow and sexy. “But I did take a page out of her book and stop by the pet store earlier, too. And can you guess what I found there?”

Hux shakes his head no. I notice a bead of sweat drip down his forehead. Ben shakes the bag and it makes a telltale metallic clink.

“No? Well, lo and behold, they sold me this choke chain for practically nothing…twelve dollars and I got a chain leash to match…I think I got a pretty good deal, even if it is only going to be a one-time use…”

Ben puts a hand into the bag and dangles a silver slip chain by one finger. This one has prongs hooked inward from the links of chain, which will create a clawed effect when it tightens around Hux’s throat. I expect Ben’s leather belt would feel like a gentle caress in comparison.

Ben sends me a half-smile as if he’s reading my mind. He moves to hover over Hux’s shoulder and leans in to whisper confidentially, “I can’t use a brutal thing like this on Rey…she’ll either kill me for doing it or die trying…and well, I kinda like having her around…”

He shakes his head and he’s looking at me, fondly, as if he’s really paying me a compliment. He’s right though. He ever tries to put that choke chain on me, and I'll gut him with that hunting knife of his.

I smile and blow him a kiss.

Ben shifts his raptor gaze to his mark, who is definitely starting to look a little sweaty, a bit…unmanicured… “…you, on the other hand?”

I feel my smile turn vulpine as I meet Hux’s eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll appreciate the magnitude of my imagination once we get started…”

Ben’s casual backhanded slap is enough to make me jump and Hux groans in pain. Some vague part of me realizes Ben has always held back a bit with me. If he ever hit me that hard, he’d have killed me.

Hux looks a bit rummy. My insides squirm with joy. It’s sick, but I don’t fucking care. That animal took something from me.

And now my very good monster is going to fuck him up for it.

“I expect by the time I’m finished, you’ll have an entirely new appreciation for lots of _things_. Like your eyes…your teeth…your nose…” Ben’s ticking things off his fingers, counting all the pieces he’s going to take and a horrible something writhes inside me. Maybe it’s glee at the dawning terror in Hux’s eyes. Maybe it’s genuine horror for what’s about to happen. “…your fingers…your balls…your _skin_ …” This last he says in a demon’s voice, dark and pitiless.

But he returns his attention to the shock collar.

“ _Do not use when wet or with water_ ,” he recites, turning it in his hand. He arches an informed brow at Hux. “I’ve seen big dogs shit uncontrollably after a zap from one of these…”

He flips the collar around and examines it carefully, casually, building the anticipation so beautifully I grow even more chilled. Ben licks his lips and waits for Hux to look at him. “You are really going to have to try and not shit yourself, my friend. Shit draws flies…and…well…you’re not going to want to have flies swarming around once I start peeling your skin off…I hear the flies are almost worse than the skinning. Could drive a person insane...”

Ben steps over to me, setting the chain and the shock collar on the workbench before ripping his knife out of the bench so effortlessly one would never have guessed how solidly he’d implanted it in the first place.

“I might do a half-ass job of cauterizing to keep you alive a little longer, so you can fully understand what I mean…I’m almost as good with a blowtorch as I am with a knife. Aren’t I, baby?”

I nod. It’s true.

He’s toying with Hux now, circling around like a half-rabid dog, picking his fingernails with the tip of his knife and throwing out little ideas about where he might start with the skinning.

“Now, I might not be traditional and go for your dick right away…Nah, I’m gonna let you worry about that for a _while_. I want you to really _think_ about it, though, because I think when I finally do take it you’re going to begin to appreciate a few things about me. Like how I can go for _days_ without sleeping. Did you know that? Don’t believe me? Ask Rey.”

Hux tries to shake his head but he looks over at me, and I nod and murmur, “It’s true. I’ve hardly ever seen him asleep. I don’t know how he does it.”

Ben hums and keeps circling, “And I’m good with a knife, _really_ good. Now, I know you have some skill yourself, as testified by the fancy artwork you did on my wife a while back…but me? Well, I might just have you beat there…I s’pose we’ll find out soon enough…”

Hux’s jaw clenches and he glares at me furiously. Ben catches it, looking back and forth between our hostile stare-down before leaning in close to Hux.

The vibe coming off Ben is enough to send terror rocketing up and down my spine, so I can’t imagine what Hux must be thinking.

Ben hisses, close enough to Hux to move the man’s red hair with his breath, “That’s why…when I start peeling your pasty hide away, I think I’ll start somewhere interesting. Maybe here?” He drags the blunt edge of his blade under Hux’s arm and Hux flinches.

“Or here?” A thin red line appears on Hux’s pale inner thigh in the wake of Ben’s blade. It must be razor-sharp to make such a fine cut.

“Maybe here?” Ben’s arm jabs down and jerks against the back of Hux’s knobby knee. I see red dripping down in shocking contrast to Hux’s pale skin.

Hux squeals from behind the gag.

“Now, that felt like a tendon or something important you need for walking…good thing you won’t be needing that again…”

Little warbles of pain or terror come out from behind the gag while Ben carefully puts the shock collar around Hux’s neck and ensures it is in place.

“You just sit here and think about where I should start. Maybe I’ll let you help me decide after I come back.”

Then he dumps a bucket of rancid water over Hux’s head. That must have been where the rotting smell was coming from. Trust Ben to plan ahead and have something like that ready...

“Fuck, that stinks. _Shit_. Looks like we’re gonna draw some flies, after all…”

Ben passes the collar’s remote to me and I hop down from the workbench.

“…now every time you feel a zap, I want you to remember how much my girl here hates your guts…she’s got a real mean streak in her, so I expect you’ll-”

I can’t wait for Ben’s speech, so I give the remote a tap and watch Hux’s eyes bulge as he grunts around the gag. Water leaks from the edges of his underwear and dribbles onto the floor below.

Ben grins. “That’s not even turned up all the way…oooh, you’re gonna have a crappy night…”

He glances at his watch and turns to me. “Dinner’s almost done, honey. Anything you need to say?”

Hux’s cold blue eyes burn into mine, and I know this will be the last time he uses them because Ben said he was going to take them for me. Ben doesn’t lie about things like skinning and blinding.

I finger the remote as if debating on giving him another zap, but the fear in those eyes is enough. For now. I shake my head and mutter, “No. I think he’s going to be _very_ sorry.”

We leave the shed and I don’t look back. Ben tucks his hands into my front pockets, walking behind me in lock-step, like kids playing. We walk straight-legged, in stride together to the back door. I take slightly larger steps as he buries his face against my neck and mutters, “We should wash up first, yeah?”

I press my finger on the remote and hear a satisfying muffled squawk from the toolshed.

“Sounds good, babe.”

_Bye-bye, Hux._

* * *


	16. Implosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [We Belong Together, Ritchie Valens](https://open.spotify.com/track/7caj6X6NMX3tlhWnu1du6V?si=N2iz5-LORRy7nhh5EQv9mg)

# Chapter Sixteen – Implosion

im·plo·sion | /imˈplōZHən/

noun

  1. an instance of something collapsing violently inward. "the star undergoes a violent _implosion_ caused by gravity"


  1. a sudden failure or collapse of an organization or system. "a global financial _implosion_ "



* * *

We come inside for dinner, leaving Hux shivering and terrified in the toolshed.

Before we went out there, Ben had popped a casserole in the oven, of all things.

The timer goes off just as we walk through the back door. I wash my hands while he takes the casserole out then looms behind me at the kitchen sink, hands resting lightly on my shoulders. He mutters so charmingly how dinner will need to set for ten minutes or so and maybe that is enough time to…?

And I turn around and let him press me against the counter and kiss me. He is so gentle it…it _hurts_ , and I can’t explain why. It's just...when he's soft like this, it bothers me. Maybe it's the way his tongue traces the seam of my lips so carefully, so coaxingly. Or the faintest whiff of the toolshed’s woodsy-metallic-chemical tang mixed with Ben’s deeper masculine smell, a hint of sweat and shampoo and leather and that indefinable scent of him.

I sculpt my hands over his t-shirt, testing the hard muscle underneath, feeling the warmth of him, always there, almost feverish. I trace the outline of a tiny gold cross on a chain. He hasn’t taken it off since I gave it to him. Not that I know of.

His breath warms my mouth and I breathe him in, the taste, the smell, the heat. He deepens our kiss, but so _cautiously_ , I’m unsure…I…

“Are you okay, baby?” he murmurs softly, his amber-whiskey eyes piercing mine with concern.

I swallow, trying to understand how to reply. I push my face into his chest, trying to hide my confusion. Sometimes he gets like this, and it baffles me every time. Sweet, teddy-bear Ben is always more disconcerting than murderous asshole, for some reason. Maybe because I don’t know what to do with him.

I feel him kiss the top of my head, and he holds me there and it reminds me of when he used to hold me on the old couch in the old version of the living room, back when I wasn’t trustworthy enough to be out without supervision. Back when he would whisper how we would have a family someday and everything would be wonderful, and he would tell me he was so happy…

 _Is this happiness?_ I ask myself. _Is this what I’m feeling? Contentment?_

His arms tighten into a hug and he mutters, “I knew I should have kept you inside for that…”

“No. No, I’m glad…I…” I don’t know how to explain, but I needed to be there. I _wanted_ to look into the eyes of the creature who hurt me and who knows his doom is upon him.

“No nightmares,” Ben warns gently, tipping my chin up so I have to look in his eyes. His thumb rubs gently over the slight bruise forming on my jaw from where he’d slapped me earlier, right before we went to see Snoke.

“Okay,” I whisper. I mean. I can try.

We eat dinner at the kitchen table, quietly. Every time my eyes meet Ben’s he squints a little smile that sends pleasurable licks of flame into my middle.

God, he’s so beautiful it’s painful to look at him sometimes.

We linger over dessert, a scoop of gelato and a very small glass of cherry wine each. Ben wants to stay alert, so he makes espresso on our little stovetop espresso percolator, which he claims is just fine compared to some over-priced machine.

I believe him, but I opt for a cup of tea, instead. It’s been a long day. I’ll be ready for bed soon.

He finishes his espresso and gives me a delicious coffee-cherry-wine-Ben-flavored kiss.

“Sleep tight, baby girl,” he whispers before heading out the back door. Through the window, I watch him stroll to the toolshed, flipping his hunting knife in hand. I hear the faintest sound of him whistling.

As if he’s really going to relish his night's work. 

_Now there are only two_ , I think as I get ready for bed.

I’m excited to finish this. But weirdly reluctant, too, if that makes sense.

Because when it’s over, then what?

Ben trusts me now. When this is finished, we will have the cash, the H, and what we plan to take from Snoke…

Once all my monsters are exterminated like the vermin they are, I’ll be set.

And I won’t need Ben anymore.

That thought…makes me uneasy. I climb into bed and fall asleep almost instantly.

After the day I had, after everything we did, of course I have a nightmare.

It always starts the same.

I hear Rose and the old lady with the coat.

Rose pulls out the bear trap to measure the coat and I tell her to be careful. It’s dangerous.

She hefts the trap onto the counter and the old lady puts her fur into the trap’s jagged teeth and says, “…we are all just little animals, trying to survive.”

I am heavily pregnant, and I rub my hands over my swollen belly and nod at the woman’s sage words.

Suddenly my ankle is vibrating because I am standing at home - my new home - before a door I've never seen, and it leads to a downstairs basement. There is another door. And another. They are all locked. My ankle vibrates again, insistently.

Will I be trapped or snared or shot?

 _Don't get caught._

I reach out to try the next door, but I can’t because it’s locked, as always.

Trapped, then.

I am in _so_ _much_ _trouble_. My heart pounds violently. 

_What if he ever finds me again?_

My heart flutters wildly in my chest.

Too late. Daddy's home.

_What’s my name? Say it._

Your real name is Ben.

…game night…company’s coming…

_…you sure you don’t wanna fuck my friends?_

I’m wrapped in a tarp in the fucking trunk and I can’t get out and there’s no air. I hear noises outside and it sounds like people fucking and I smell blood. My blood? Am I dead? Did I die?

I have a gun, I know how to use it, and I need to be patient. I’m good at waiting.

_Always take the sure shot._

I wonder if – when I shoot him – if Hux’s head will explode in a bloody pulp the same way Teedo’s did. I wonder if he’s sorry for killing my baby.

The trunk flings open and _he’s_ there. The wolf. The _monster_. My neck hurts from where he bit me. He’s going to rip my throat out.

Wild terror fills me.

_Please please don’t hurt me. The baby. Please. We don’t have anything to bury her in._

I bare my teeth and his eyes glow black with rage. “You think you can bite the hand that feeds?”

_No! I’m nothing. I’m nobody._

“That’s not true,” he barks. “You’re _mine_. I fucking own you. You just need to _learn_.”

And then he’s snarling and growling and right as he pounces and rips at my belly with razor-sharp teeth, I seize up.

He bites my arm instead and his teeth are like needles and I can see the syringe hanging from where he bit me and I don’t fucking hesitate to push the plunger down but something’s wrong something’s _wrong_ , the baby–

Fire spills through my veins and I know its poison and it’s _killing_ me and I’m dying.

_get it out getitout_

_Get it the fuck out of me!_

I claw at my arm and Kylo tells me I won’t be needing _that_ anymore, so I rip the skin away and I wonder when the flies will come and when I look again, I see horrible swarming blackness and I scream until the blood crusts in my throat.

I can’t move and they’re crawling _everywhere,_ biting and chewing on me like I’m a dead animal left to rot in bear country.

But I am not an animal.

_I’m something else._

_Kylo and me, we’re the same. I’m a monster–_

_Hux is here he’s here he’s never leaving._

_No one’s ever really gone._

I wake, shuddering and soaked in sweat, alone in the blackness of our room. I fell asleep face-down and my arm is numb. It’s well after midnight, and the house is quiet.

I’m so, so thirsty. My throat hurts.

_Hux is here._

I grope for the remote to the shock collar, which I’d left on the nightstand. Before bed and all through dinner earlier, I’d been randomly pressing the remote’s button, sending a little hate note from my finger directly to Hux’s worthless neck.

I push the button again and listen, but I don’t hear anything.

Not that I would, but still.

My hand makes its way to my belly and I wonder if, as he said, Ben knocked me up earlier.

My toes curl as I remember what directly preceded that statement. 

It’s becoming more difficult by the day to remember just what my husband is. _Killing is in my blood. Generations of it. And they’re in her, now, too._

Ben Solo might walk and talk like a man, but he’s a fucking monster.

He’s out in the toolshed right now. Being monstrous.

He’s been out there for hours.

Ben said he can keep this going for days, and I believe him. He’s a killer. A vicious animal.

I try not to think about what it might mean if he was right and he got me pregnant. I try to focus on _now_ , this moment, and what I can do to keep Ben motivated. I go to the kitchen and try to think.

I pour myself a huge glass of water from the filtered tap on our new fridge and gulp down every drop. I wonder if Hux is thirsty and that makes me smile, knowing precisely how good Ben is at keeping someone dying of thirst, clinging to the edge of life.

Ben is probably hungry again, so I shuffle around and make him a sandwich. I pour some iced tea into a bottle, so it doesn’t get spilled with whatever he’s up to out there. I can bring him more later, but this should tide him over for now.

I set his sandwich and the bottle on a tray and remind myself to grab the blowtorch from the cupboard. He mentioned it earlier, but he forgot to take it in his hurry to get out there and start in on Hux.

I spot Ben’s glasses on the kitchen table and wonder if he wants those, too. I add them to the tray, just in case.

When I knock on the door to the toolshed, it takes a minute for Ben to answer. I’m not sure I want to see what’s going on in there, but he’s blocking the view with his body, so I don’t have to decide.

His eyes light up at the sight of food, then darken when he takes in my haunted expression. He steps outside, careful to keep the view blocked as he pulls the door shut.

“What happened?” he hisses quietly.

I notice his hands are streaked with blood and suddenly I feel like an intruder. Like I’m…interrupting an intimate moment or something.

“I…had a bad dream and I woke up and thought you might be hungry,” I explain lamely.

He presses his lips together and narrows his eyes. “A bad dream?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmm.” He eyes the sandwich. “You wanna hold that for me, so I can eat it, baby?”

Apparently, he’s going to save lecturing me in favor of sustenance. Which is fine with me.

I set the tray on the ground and hold the sandwich to his lips. He takes a huge bite, growling softly and smiling thanks with his pretty eyes.

I smile back and feed him the rest. He scarfs it down rather quickly, nipping playfully at my fingers when he gets to the last bites. Moonlight filters down and there’s faint yellow light from the house, through the kitchen window, but it is rather dark out here. I shiver and he notices.

He uncaps the bottle himself and swigs down half of it, throat muscles working as he swallows greedily.

“That was a good sandwich, baby.”

“Thanks.” I shrug, trying to keep it casual so he doesn't think I miss him or anything. “I didn’t know if you needed this other stuff, so I brought it just in case…”

He glances at the tray and nods. “Yeah. Maybe later. But first I wanna know about your bad dream.”

I wish he could hug me, but he’s got blood all over his clothes and I don’t want to talk about it, anyhow.

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’m…I’ll be all right. I should go back to bed so you can–”

“Rey.”

I can feel my eyes filling with tears and I can’t stop the residual terror of my dream from making my voice quaver.

“…it’s just hard to sleep without you…when _he’s_ here,” I finally whisper. 

Ben sighs.

“Come on,” he murmurs, holding out his arms. And for some idiotic reason, I jump in without hesitation and let him carry me inside.

He takes me into the bathroom, and I help him undress. He’s not dripping blood, but it streaks over his hands and arms and clothes.

“Did I get any on me?”

He scans me up and down and shakes his head _no_. “Strip outta them pajamas, honey, and help me wash up.”

I do as he says because I really don’t have a choice. I started this, so I might as well finish it.

I step into the shower with him. He rinses first, then we trade places so I can stand in the hot spray while he soaps his hair and underarms and chest.

“Aren’t you worried about leaving Hux out there?” I ask.

“Not really. He’s not going anywhere.” Ben is being vague and I kinda want details.

“What did you do to him? So far?”

Ben shakes his head. “Not too much. Mostly just making sure he stays awake.”

 _Really?_ “How?”

Ben shuffles me out of the spray so he can rinse himself. “Well, I took his eyelids off.”

 _Shit._ “Really?” I squeak. Holy fuck. I guess that would do the trick.

“Yep.”

“Oh...”

“And I’ve got his balls screwed to the chair. Well…to a plank… _through_ the chair? All I know is he won’t be moving. Can’t have him thrashing around once I really get started.”

How the hell is Hux screwed to a chair? _Oh_. The wood screws and the lattice-work of the cast iron…I know Ben has scrap lumber out there and I think I can figure it out, actually.

“You’ve been getting through loud and clear, too, baby girl. Don’t you worry. He really fuckin’ hates that collar you picked out,” Ben chuckles, giving himself a final rinse.

I’m not sure if I should be happy or kind of grossed out over it. A shock collar is pretty fucking sick if you really think about it. Ben said I was about as depraved as it gets…maybe he’s right.

Ben turns me and scrubs shampoo into my scalp. I don’t technically need to wash as thoroughly as he did, but it feels good and it is relaxing. It reminds me of the early days, after we first met when he had to help me shower. He rinses me off, gently.

“Are you really going to keep him going for days?” I ask as warm water streams down my face.

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes. He sounds a little angry reaching behind me and twisting the faucet, turning off the spray.

“Are you mad I interrupted your…thing?”

“Mad?” he purrs. “Of course not, baby girl.”

We step out and he wraps a towel around his hips while I drag his bathrobe around my shoulders and wrap a towel around my hair in a turban. His robe is way too big on me, but I’ve sort of appropriated it. It’s warm and comfy and it smells like him.

He ushers me to our room and flicks on the lamp on the nightstand. He climbs in bed, tugging me to lie next to him in the warm, golden glow.

I lean close and kiss him. He tastes good. There’s something about his skin fresh from the shower that feels good against mine. Clean. Strong. He smells delicious, and I moan. He returns it, cupping my hips and pulling me closer.

Is it weird that I want sex right now? Because I feel like it’s weird, considering we have an evil drug lord who raped and tortured me screwed to a chair by the balls in the toolshed out back. Who is missing his eyelids and the tendons he needs for walking, apparently.

But Ben seems to understand and doesn’t hesitate to dip his shower-damp hands under the robe and stroke me until I turn in his arms and straddle him. 

And I realize what it is.

What it is I need.

“Ben?” I murmur.

“What, baby?”

“I want…can you…?” I realize I’ve never _asked_ him before.

Like the stupid glass of water a million years ago. I kiss him harder, my beast. My monster.

“ _What_ , baby?”

He likes this. Me needing him.

He’ll always like it. And right now? I need him. 

“I don’t want to have nightmares anymore. Make the monsters go away. Please.” I whisper it against his pretty mouth and something wild and hot flares between us.

“You don’t have to be scared of anything, baby girl…” he vows soothingly, even as his breathing quickens. “I’m here…not gonna let anyone hurt you ever again.”

“You promise?”

“Promise, baby,” he croons, giving me a reassuring squeeze.

I wonder briefly if he includes himself in that promise, but I let it go for now.

“Make me forget. Please.”

Sure enough, as if I’ve spoken the magic words, he groans lightly and sits up, eager to kiss the bad dreams away.

Such a good, obedient boy he is.

He carefully pulls the towel from my hair and tosses it away before dragging my mouth to his for a scalding kiss. His tongue dances against mine and his every breath is fired with willingness, every stroke of his hands stoked by a nearly painful gratitude that I thought to _ask_ for such a thing. To trust him.

It’s so fucked up, but I _know_ it’s true. I know it in my heart.

It hits me like a freight train when I realize.

Times like this are the only chances he’s ever had to be the good guy. To do something _right_. He would take such good care of me, if only I would _let_ him.

Just let him.

_Oh._

I shift in his lap and groan his name, a deliberate enticement. A sound of…praise…adoration, even.

_Ben is your real name._

“Ben!” I breathe. He kisses me deeper, like he's trying to swallow me down, and I rub against him, determined to let him chase my bad dreams into the night.

He shifts as if to roll me beneath him, but I stop him and moan, “… _please_ …this is so good, babe…like this…”

“Yeah?”

“Mmmmh, yes…please,” I push my fingers into his damp, silky hair and press my mouth to his with renewed fervor, shifting my butt until I feel the heat of his arousal bumping against me.

He pushes the robe aside so he can put his hands on my bare skin, and I moan again, lost in the sensation of him, all that smooth muscle and animal magnificence under me. He tugs my wrists, pulling me forward until I’m lying on top of him, chest to chest, and our kisses become laced with something hotter…more feral.

I skim my tongue over his, clutching him by the hair as I remind him who he belongs to. He growls in reply, his tongue sliding possessively over mine, and a familiar wet desire pulses between my legs.

“…please…want you…” I pant. He shifts, moving his hands to guide himself there, where I need him, and I can see the light flickering in his eyes as I take him, sinking down with a throaty groan because he feels _so_ fucking good.

“…fuck!” he grits out, gripping my hands so I have leverage. This is new for me and I fucking _love_ it. Oh, _yes_ … _this_ is how we should have been doing it all along.

I watch his face as I move experimentally, shifting my hips, pulling his hands to cover my breasts. He takes the hint and caresses me so reverently, so worshipfully, I feel like a goddess, divine.

My head falls back when he flexes his hips. A knowing smile curls at his lips as he drives the pressure inside me from exquisite to desperate in two hard thrusts.

“You like this, baby girl?” he murmurs gently, even as he cups my hips and presses with his thumbs, shifting me into a rocking motion.

I can’t talk but I nod and try to ride against him, harder. I need… _more_ …

Fire catches in his eyes and he thrusts up and jerks me down and it’s _intoxicating_ , the way he feels, the way he’s looking at me.

“Ben, oh, shit you feel so good…”

He grunts and does it again and again until my thighs are quivering, and I can feel the wetness from my pussy making him slick and the _sound_ of us is all I can hear. I run my hands over everything I can reach, his pecs and abs, that silky trail of hair under his navel…

He takes my hand in his and guides it between my legs and grunts, “Touch yourself for me…wanna watch…”

I do it for a minute, but I feel so… _naughty_ doing this, and I realize there’s no hiding it from him, he can see _everything_ like this…

He slows to a painfully unhurried pace and strokes my belly with the back of his hand murmuring, “…you’re so…beautiful… _mine_ …”

And dammit, he’s looking at me like he fucking loves me. Like he really, _really_ does. And if he says it now, I think it might destroy me or something.

I don’t know. It’s just…the way he’s fucking into me so… _passionately_ and smiling so tenderly, kissing my fingers, eyes glowing brightly...it's too much. I know he’s going to come soon, and I don’t think I _can_ like this, so I rear back and snap, “Stop it.”

He shakes his head with a wicked grin and slows to a gentle roll.

I need something… _more_ …and it’s pissing me off and he fucking knows it, the bastard.

I should just let him go on and fucking say it, but…shit, I can’t. My heart can’t take such sweetness. Not from him.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he bites out, barely loud enough for me to hear. “Can’t you come? I thought you _liked_ being the boss.” He's fucking _teasing_ me. 

I hiss, “Fuck me like you mean it, goddammit.”

Something dark and beastly simmers out of him and he rudely shoves me back so he can sit up.

Ah. I flipped the right switch this time.

_Good._

He’s taken over the pace now, lip curled back savagely, and it’s still not enough and he fucking _knows_ it.

“Give it…” I grit out. I'm sweating. 

“What? This?” He flips me onto my back and pushes my knees open. A raw scream rips from my throat when he rams in hard enough to jar my teeth together. And it’s instantly better, the angle, the force of it, the way he wraps his hand around my neck and squeezes and _owns_ me, the way he finally unleashes all that animal ferocity.

“Oh, you just like to get fucked like a little bitch in heat, that’s what it is,” he growls, hips slamming into mine until I see stars. “Is _that_ it?”

“…yes…” I choke as his grip tightens.

I can feel myself seizing up and he kneels back, lifting my thighs until I’m arched up to meet him.

His thumb brushes over the place where our bodies rub together and he sucks it into his mouth with a lewd _smack_ , cheeks hollowing as he captures my gaze with his. I couldn’t look away if the house was on fire.

He pulls me into him and braces my feet on the bed so he can lever his hips into mine.

“You wanna come? Is this gonna make you come?” It makes me _insane_ , that fierce look in his eyes as he fucks into me, _hard_.

“…feels so good…just like that…yes, please, oh, fuck yes…”

“You like it. Getting fucked by me.” He’s not asking and I’m not arguing.

“…yes…” Oh, God, the tension is so good, so _perfect_ , the way his pelvis grinds against my clit and his cock digs in _just_ right...

“…come on, honey, come for Daddy…”

A high-pitched wail escapes me, and I feel myself slipping away into that place, the place where the only thing that exists is his cock in my pussy, his eyes boring into mine, his breath, his sweat and his sounds and his heat and I let myself fall apart under his furious pounding.

“… _that’s my girl_ …” he sputters, baring his teeth and letting go with a vicious snarl and a few more pumps.

He settles himself on top of me and groans into my neck before giving me a soft, wet kiss and an ironic chuckle.

“You always get what you want in the end, huh?”

“Not _always_ ,” I murmur, adjusting the gold chain around his neck so the little cross doesn’t hang in my face.

He hums in apparent disagreement and tells me, “Well. I always get what I want, too. You remember that. Now, no more bad dreams, okay?”

I smile and give him a breathless smooch on the cheek. “Okay.”

“The only monster you need to worry about anymore is me,” he says gruffly. “And stay away from the toolshed for the next couple days. I mean it.”

He scowls into my eyes and I nod in agreement.

Like he said. There are two types of animals in this world. The ones who will do anything to survive.

And the ones who rule them.

And I know exactly which group I belong to.

After that, we chatted well into the early morning hours. He told me more than I ever would have expected him to reveal. Things about his childhood, things about Rose. Things about his family.

I spent the next two days cleaning out the front bedroom to make it into a nursery. I even took the Mustang to Wal-Mart and bought a ridiculous amount of baby crap. I have no idea what half of it is, but I bought it and carted it home.

Ben even took an hour away from torturing Hux to help me unload the car and carry baby furniture and things inside.

I know it’s way too early, but he’s so excited and it’s contagious.

I…have hope. And I’ve made a decision.

I’m not convinced leaving Ben is the right thing to do anymore. Logically I know I shouldn’t stay with him. I _know_ this.

If I’m being logical, I _know_ he stole me. He kidnapped me and he raped me and kept me locked up like an animal. He got me hooked on heroin, which I still dream about every damn day, and he got me pregnant and was the main reason I was attacked…the reason we lost our daughter.

He burned me and cut me and buried my best friend’s body in his backyard like she was nothing more than a dead animal.

He’s a sweetheart one minute and a homicidal butcher the next, a violent criminal and a dirty cop who sells drugs to kids.

He’s a killer.

I _know_.

But…I’m not scared of him anymore.

And we’re the same.

I’ve killed, too, and I’m going to help him kill again. We’ve already _planned_ it.

That’s premeditated.

Maybe it’s fucked up. But I don’t care.

He’s mine. _Mine_.

Nothing else matters. He said.

I stay away from the toolshed because he tells me to, and honestly…I don’t know if I have the stomach for more details.

Despite his promise to stay awake the whole time, Ben has popped in over the past couple of days to eat and shower and sleep. He says Hux will last longer if he gets time to rest and think about his sins, but I think Ben’s just checking on me to make sure I’m really okay.

When he comes in and tells me it’s finally over, I just feel sort of hollow inside. Ben asks if I want to go with him to dump the body, but it’s eight-thirty and I’m already ready for bed.

I wave from the front porch as he pulls out of the driveway, the taste of his kiss still lingering on my lips, and I lock up, thinking to have an early night.

I’m just getting a last glass of water when I hear a tentative knock at the front door. I look through the peephole and I see a very tall blonde woman smiling nervously down at me.

It never occurs to me to be afraid of a woman. So, I open the door curiously.

Maybe she’s missing a cat or something.

“Hi…can I…help you?” I ask.

She replies with a wide smile. “Hey there, I’m Gwen.”

Her hand is outstretched in greeting, so I hold out mine to shake hers. “I’m Rey.”

“Yeah,” Gwen says and I smile back. “Actually, this is a weird question, but I’m looking for someone, and this is the last known location of his phone. Before the signal died?”

A tendril of unease slips along the back of my neck and I feel the blood drain from my face.

Fucking _fuck_.

“Oh?” My poker face is usually great. Maybe now, not so much.

I try to slam the door shut, but it’s too late.

I don’t miss the feral sneer that washes the friendly grin off her face…but when she knocks me out, I never see it coming.

* * *


	17. Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There might be some triggering stuff in this chapter, but it’s spoilery, so click on the “End Notes” to skip to the end for detailed trigger warnings. 
> 
> I wrote this chapter in two, originally, but for pacing and suspense, I think it works like this. It's a bit different, but I hope you like it.
> 
> [Son Of A Preacher Man, Dusty Springfield](https://open.spotify.com/track/0scrtPmtlIVwwk9s4LXJ8n?si=9naz8IbzQmazGDmEU6l4TQ)

# Chapter Seventeen – Rebellion

re·bel·lion | /rəˈbelyən/

_noun_

  * an act of violent or open resistance to an established government or ruler.



"the authorities put down a rebellion by landless colonials"

synonyms: uprising, revolt, insurrection, mutiny, revolution, insurgence, insurgency, rising, rioting, riot;

  * the action or process of resisting authority, control, or convention.



"an act of teenage rebellion"

synonyms: defiance, disobedience, rebelliousness, insubordination, mutinousness, subversion, subversiveness, resistance, dissent, nonconformity;

* * *

_Nothing else matters…except this…everything else in between…_

I’m coming to, waking in pitch darkness. Am I in a closet or something? I don’t hear anything, and it’s hard to get my bearings, but I feel like I am lying on carpet over concrete, like that tightly-woven red patterned carpeting in Snoke’s office. I can smell a faint layer of fry grease and stale breadsticks.

My head is pounding, and it takes me a minute to figure out why it smells familiar.

It smells like that musty restaurant…yeah.

 _Fuck_. That bitch took me to Snoke.

I’m bound and I fight a moment of panic. I need to stay calm. Ben will come for me.

He promised he’d make sure the monsters never hurt me again. I have to believe he meant it.

So, I need to stay smart and _alive_ until he gets here.

I think I’m alone for now.

My head is killing me, so I distract myself, testing my bonds, which are tight enough to chafe and cut off my circulation if I move too much.

After a few minutes of struggle, I lie still and think about Ben, _willing_ him to hurry.

 _Hux’s damned phone._ It must have slipped out of his pocket when we put him in the trunk of the car or something.

Dammit.

I really hope Ben wasn’t stupid enough to keep it as a souvenir.

Annoyance hits me when I realize our Plan for Snoke is dead on arrival.

Since apparently my existence is no longer a secret. Or it won't be for long. 

My thoughts drift while I wait for him.

* * *

We snuggled together in the tangled sheets and his bathrobe, still sweaty and a little breathless from moments before. The glow of light from the lamp on the nightstand spilled an illusion of warmth over us.

I didn’t want to think about Hux in the toolshed, so instead, I pressed closer to Ben’s solid heat, hooking my leg over his waist.

“Ben?”

“Hmmm?”

Maybe I sounded a little whiny, but I figured I was entitled to know, being his wife and all.

“Why did you keep D.J.’s jacket?”

I felt rather than saw him shrug. “I liked it. And it fits me good.”

I swallowed my revulsion over the idea of Ben wearing something once owned by a worm like D.J.

Ben is just not one of those people bothered by things like that, I guess.

It reminded me of him digging through Bala-Tik’s pockets after I shot him. I asked what he took.

“His pocket watch.”

“Why? As proof for Snoke?”

“Nah, I just wanted a souvenir.”

I was uncomfortably reminded of the fact Ben is a killer…one who likes to keep mementos of dead people. A chill crept over me when the words _serial killer_ snuck into my head.

I almost, _almost_ asked where he found the dress I wore to Snoke’s but based on the extremely tight fit and very loud color, I would have bet cash money it belonged to one of his dead pets.

I wondered where he kept that stuff, assuming he had a whole stash of things from dead people I don’t know about. I’ve never seen him with a pocket watch, and that dress came out of nowhere…

_That’s fucking disturbing._

It was weirding me out, so I changed the subject again.

“You told Hux killing was in your blood…you said _generations_. Is it…just your grandfather?”

“Nah,” he replied shortly. “It’s my whole family. We’re either killers or zealots. Nobody normal.”

“What kind of zealots?”

“Religious,” he huffed. “Are there any other kind?”

I said I didn’t know much about that sort of thing. And when I asked him to tell me more, surprisingly, he did.

I already knew some about his grandfather, but I let him talk, sensing he would give me more if I stayed quiet.

Anakin Skywalker was arrested for the murder of his wife when Ben’s mother was a small child. Leia grew up under that shadow, daughter of one of the most prolific serial killers in the last century, and she made no secret of her loathing for the man.

When he was imprisoned, Leia was separated from her twin brother and sent to live with distant relatives. The twins grew up apart from each other, only reconnecting when their father was eventually executed for his crimes.

As if to distance herself from Anakin Skywalker’s horrific misdeeds, Leia took her adopted parents’ name, Organa. She was just nineteen when she wed a Pentecostal preacher, Han Solo, and barely twenty when Ben was born. 

“Your father was a preacher?” I found that incredibly interesting.

“More like a two-bit snake-oil salesman,” Ben muttered cynically. “He would have disappointed you.”

“Oh,” I breathed. “And your mother?”

Ben’s voice grew cold and he sneered. “She always tried to make me be good, but she never could. Tried to beat the Devil out of me whenever Dad was away, but she stopped eventually.”

“…she beat you?”

“Yeah, but only when I was little. And Dad didn’t like people noticing if I looked too beat up. We had to look like the perfect family, you know. At least on the outside, where people could see.”

He said it casually, yet I sensed an underlying bitterness still there. It reminded me so strongly of what Rose used to say about the suburbs being a front.

“What happens behind closed doors is not what people show the world,” I said softly.

“Yeah. That’s true enough. Mother had it fixed in her mind I was born evil and Grandfather’s blood needed to be purged by God.”

“Born evil? But babies are all good, aren’t they?” This revelation confused me, having never really been exposed to religion or children before. I always assumed _all_ children were basically good until they grew up and got all fucked up by society and shit.

“Nah. Not me. I was rotten to the core. She told me so every day of my life. Said I’d have to work extra hard to keep the Devil out. And she made me work, believe me.”

Ben wasn’t yet sinking into that dark person he becomes sometimes if I get too nosy, so I prodded, “Work? How?”

“If I didn’t want to spend a weekend fasting and praying, it was a sign of my evil Skywalker blood. If I didn’t feel like going to church every day of the week and twice on Sundays, it meant the Devil was winning. When I was seven, I tried to run away, but they found me a few hours later outside a biker bar, asking for food.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad…”

“Well, it was. The Hell’s Angels hung out there. Mother was convinced I was naturally drawn to the Devil.”

 _Oh_.

Ben’s voice grew soft as he became rather lost in his memories. “One time, in fourth grade, a girl gave me a present because she liked me. Some action figure from a cartoon I was never allowed to watch. Mother burned it when I showed it to her. And then Dad gave me a two-hour lecture on how it was a false idol and would open a doorway for the Devil to come into our home.”

“That’s…a little bizarre…isn’t it?” I whispered. Ben was painting a rather vivid picture of an unhappy childhood, which wasn’t unexpected. His parents sounded as if they were exactly what Ben said: Zealots.

“That’s nothing.” Ben shifted so I could sit up and lean against him as he propped himself against the headboard. “After I tried to bring the Devil into our home, Mother got these tapes from the church bookstore, and she would play them every night and make me listen…trying to scare me into being good, I think.”

“Like cassette tapes?”

“Yeah. About the Bible and the End Times and shit like that.”

“Oh…”

“A few of them were plenty scary, but if I said I didn’t like them, then she’d only be more convinced I was doing the Devil’s work…”

“Why were they scary?”

“Some of it was stuff like people being exorcised of demons and possessed by the Devil and shit like that. People screaming in scary voices and languages I couldn’t understand.”

 _“What?_ Ben…how old were you? _”_

“Aw, I dunno. Nine? Ten? I didn’t like it, but I listened to her tapes and tried to pray and feel the Lord come into my heart and speak in tongues and all that shit, but I just never could. I tried to talk to Uncle Lando about it one time, but he always said I would turn out just fine and to try not to take any of that stuff too seriously.”

Ben chuckled darkly and a shiver ran down my spine at the unhappy sound.

“Mother overheard him and after that, I wasn’t allowed to leave the house except for school. Wasn’t allowed to have friends, not that anyone ever wanted to hang out with the weird preacher’s kid.”

I didn’t exactly have an orthodox upbringing myself, but I sensed a deep betrayal and loneliness from him and gave him a comforting squeeze.

“School was tough but better than being at home. They hated having me in public school. They couldn’t afford private, and Mother was too busy with church for homeschooling. I was glad for it, but I had to be careful. Couldn’t bring textbooks home without fear of Mother ripping out pages of stuff that offended her. She’d get so angry with me, always screaming about apostasy and how the teachers were wrong. And then I’d get in trouble at school, too. So, I would imagine I had a separate life. One where I was _good_. And one where I could be…normal.”

Foreboding washed over me as he spoke. I hardly breathed or moved as I listened and waited for him to go on.

“I did a better job of keeping things separate. Read a lot of books. But one day, when I was fifteen, I…I messed up. Dad found a Stephen King book in my room and they freaked out, just lost it.”

“Because you had a book?”

A mirthless breath of laughter escaped him. “According to them, _that_ book was practically an engraved invite to the Devil himself to come on in and have a seat at the dinner table. They were positive I had a secret friend, a bad influence…wouldn’t believe the school library would allow a kid to check out a book with such _sinful_ content…didn’t believe me when I swore I didn’t have friends.”

_He had to swear he didn’t have friends?_

“And then they searched my room and found…some _other_ stuff. Stuff I’d researched about my grandfather. Articles from newspapers, copies of case studies from books. I just wanted to know more…about _why_ …and they found my journal, read my private thoughts, some short stories I wrote. Mother burned it all and said she didn’t want the Devil coming into her house. Dad sent me to live with my Uncle Luke until she settled down. But, I had to leave Chewie behind.”

“Who’s Chewie?”

I glanced up and Ben looked upset. I’d never seen him like this, and it frightened me more than anything.

“Chewie was my dog.” He said it softly.

He was sad, I realized. Heartbroken.

* * *

My eyes drift open and it takes me a minute to realize I’d fallen asleep, curled up on the floor of wherever I am.

I hear movement in a room beyond and try to orient myself, listening for voices or anything that will give me confirmation of my whereabouts.

I wait in ever-expanding anticipation for minutes or hours. My stomach growls with hunger, and I am momentarily irritated Ben is taking so long to come for me.

I think, rather ironically, Ben has done a decent job ensuring I get three square meals a day and seeing to my general physical comforts, for the most part. I’ve grown rather accustomed to it, and I need to remind myself I’ve been through far worse.

Still, I want to murder that big blonde bitch who took me out of my comfortable home where I’d still be cozy in bed, probably. If I get out of this alive, I’m definitely siccing Ben on her.

I hear footsteps shuffle closer, and the wall opens. Light pours into my tiny closet and I’m temporarily blinded by it as a man reaches in and hauls me into a room. I blink and look around, immediately recognizing Snoke’s office.

Unlike the last time I was in here, I stare boldly at the man sitting behind a desk. He’s older, late fifties, I think. Medium build with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and the coldest, most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I swallow a lump of fear and stand quietly while whoever dragged me from the closet removes the ties from my wrists and ankles before leaving us alone.

I know the illusion of freedom is just that, and Snoke has a loaded gun trained on me from behind his desk. I can’t see it, but Ben has mentioned it a few times.

“Ahh, young _Rey_. I thought you long dead by now.” The man has a gorgeous voice, deep and gravelly and musical, but it’s currently dripping with evil disdain.

 _I should not be here,_ I think in panic. _This is a bad place._

“You’re unexpected. Hux said he finished you.”

“He tried,” I say, unable to keep defiance from rising up.

Snoke chokes back a laugh and I flinch. “Yes, I can see his efforts did not go as he thought. He _told_ me what he did on my behalf. To convey my… _message_.”

I watch nervously as Snoke gracefully opens a wooden box on his desk and removes a long, elegant-looking cigar. He fiddles with it for a moment. As if he has all the time in the world.

Which I suppose he does, since I’m not in a hurry to conclude the talking part of this interview. I have a sinking feeling I know what’s coming next if Ben doesn’t get here soon.

I try not to shift impatiently as I stand there and watch Snoke trim his cigar and light it with a wooden match. He puffs and smokes and watches me with a rather frightening, calculating stare.

But he doesn’t say a thing.

So, I wait.

* * *

“Dad always said Chewie was his dog, but Chewie liked me better. He was… _mine_.”

“What…happened to him?”

“I had to leave him behind when I went to live with Luke.”

“What was that like?” I asked.

Luke was Catholic, so Ben started attending mass and he _liked_ going to church, for the first time in his life. It soothed his need for acceptance and rebellion from his parents. He liked the ritual and his uncle encouraged him to go when he felt he needed to, said Ben would always be welcome at Church.

I could see why that might appeal to someone who’d been isolated and told he’s evil his whole life. 

“And that’s when Luke was a doctor, still?” I prompted gently.

“Yeah. He specialized in end-of-life hospice work, working with old people.”

Luke started taking Ben on his hospice visits, so Ben could do chores and pray and light candles and help comfort grieving family members. Ben was young but naturally good at it, and Ben was always welcome, so long as he promised to stay away from the actual dying people.

But one day, Ben couldn’t resist peeking in on his uncle. And that was when he witnessed his uncle put a pillow over an old woman’s face and hold it there for a long time.

“At first, I couldn’t believe what I was watching. Watching Luke kill someone.”

Ben’s voice took on that emotionless velvety purr that made my heart pound. Adrenaline prickled at my fingertips, but I held myself still, listening in shock.

“Luke caught me and gave me some line of bullshit about mercy. Said he was keeping track of his ‘good works’ and someday he’d be rewarded. I lied and said I understood and promised I’d keep quiet, but all I knew was Luke was a killer, too. Just like Grandfather.”

“Ben. That’s…awful…” I whispered, horrified. “What did you do? Weren’t you scared he’d…come after you? Try to keep you from telling?”

“Fuck, yeah, I was scared. I waited until he went to sleep and combed through his house until I found the evidence, found his journals. Like he’d said, it was all there, all the details and dates, all the final words of dozens of old people he’d killed. I stole ‘em and hid ‘em and went back to my parents’ house. Sure enough, Luke came sniffing around the very next day. I told Luke if he ever killed me or if I ever ended up missing, those journals would come to light and he’d end up on Death Row like Grandfather.”

“You didn’t tell anyone about it?”

“Who would have listened? My parents would have just said I was demon-possessed and accused me of lying. And Lando…I couldn’t risk telling him and him not believing me.”

“But…you could have shown _someone_ …Luke’s a _murderer_?” I gasped, still unable to fully comprehend how fucked up Ben’s family was.

“I told you. None of us are normal. And, yeah, I could have turned in his books to the cops, but it _could_ have looked like he’d just kept creepy records of his hospice work…and, besides, having something like that on Luke…I _liked_ it, knowing I could take him down any time I wanted.”

“What happened when you went back to your parents’?” I asked.

“Oh, they were furious, especially after they found out I’d turned Catholic. Mother called me an idol-worshipping Satanist and barely spoke to me, but I was only sixteen so they had to let me stay or it would have looked bad.”

Ben paused and his voice grew soft, sad. “But, when I got back, Chewie was still there, so I figured it would be okay. He was the only one happy to see me. But I could tell right away something was wrong. He was sick.”

 _Oh, no._ I could see where this was going, and it wasn’t going to be happy.

Ben whispered, “Mother prayed over him every day but wouldn’t take him to the vet to have him looked at. I begged her for months. He just got worse and worse. He was a big dog and I was the only one strong enough to carry him outside or wash him. Mother said whether he lived or died was God’s will. Dad said the same and said we only get sick because of our sin. That every living creature is _corrupt_ with it and that it was…”

He stopped. I wasn’t sure if I should prod him to go on, but he did after a minute.

“He said Chewie being sick was God’s punishment for me turning away from the true faith. He said it was my fault. That it was our lot to suffer in this life for the sins of our fathers…”

“Ben,” I whispered, my heart pounding with incoming dread. “It’s okay. You don’t have to…”

“I finally convinced Dad to come with me and Chewie. Told him I wanted to take him somewhere peaceful and pray. But I was planning to put him down. I couldn’t watch Chewie like that. Dying. So...I…we drove him out to the woods and…I said all the prayers I could think of. Dad shook his head, but he couldn’t stop me once we were there. I could tell he didn’t like all the Catholic ‘mumbo-jumbo’ and I know dogs don’t have souls and they can’t really go to Heaven, but I think Chewie…he was a good dog. If anyone might have made it, I think it would have been him.”

“Oh, Ben.”

I searched his face for what, I don’t know. But Ben’s eyes went cold, and he said, “I did it myself. I understood then, about my Uncle Luke. Why he’d done what he had done. It made sense. Sometimes killing is the only thing that makes sense.”

 _Fuck._ The hunting accident. Oh my God.

“And…your father?”

“He deserved what he got. For letting Chewie suffer. For not fighting for him or helping him. For putting so much on him when it wasn’t his fault. That dog never sinned a day in his life. Not like me.”

Ben’s eyes were haunted, and I couldn’t stop trembling. But Ben’s voice chilled to arctic when he muttered, “I shot my dad, but he took a good few minutes to die. Got a taste of suffering. And at the end he had the balls to say he forgave me.”

“Oh.”

“And then he said he’d see me in Hell.”

_Oh._

“I buried Chewie far away from there and left Dad right where he croaked and went home and told Mother there’d been an accident. Fucking bitch called the cops right away. But, by the time the body was recovered, the animals had already gotten to him.”

* * *

Snoke narrows his eyes around a wisp of not-unpleasant cigar smoke.

“You look much better than the others ever did. I suppose last time you were here, you were putting on a bit of a show, _hmmm_?”

His gaze rakes me up and down and I’m swarming with nerves and trying not to let it show. Any hint of vulnerability in front of this person will be turned and wielded quite ruthlessly against me, I know it.

I stay quiet, not sure what might set this particular monster off.

“Kylo Ren is a psychopath, incapable of caring for anyone, or so I’d assumed. _Wrongly_.” Snoke stubs out his cigar and leans forward, peering at me curiously. “Although I do know Ren’s a possessive creature. At first, I’d assumed Hux’s little _transgression_ would have set him off…but he never did come storming in.”

Snoke’s blue eyes take in my grubby pajamas and he muses, “Ren did come groveling back _weeks_ later. _Hmmm_. I guess now I know what took him so long. I never would have expected him to keep a _pet_ alive more than a few months…”

“He’s coming for me.”

“I doubt that very much.” Snoke sounds confident and I waver. “His grandfather was one of the most brutal murderers ever born. And Ren? I’ve never met such a bloodless killer.”

But Snoke doesn’t know _all_ about Ben. He doesn’t know Ben married me. He doesn’t know how Ben trusts me. He said he loves me. 

“ _Ahhh_ …you sense a weakness in him, is that it?” Snoke laughs and the voluptuousness of it makes my skin crawl. “You think he what? Loves you?”

He barks with amusement, and I try not to shrink before the hopelessness crashing into me.

What if he’s right? What if Ben really has no…compassion? What if it was all a lie?

* * *

Ben lived with Lando during the brief trial. It was then he met Snoke, who had been a juror on the case, of all things. Once Ben was cleared of all charges, Snoke introduced himself and invited Ben to come and work for him.

“I couldn’t say no. I needed a job, and I needed a way to support myself. I…didn’t want to ask Lando for anything more. Not after everything he’d done.”

I was still reeling from everything he’d told me, but there was more. I sensed this was a catharsis for him. He felt it, too, and he stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head.

“Snoke had a _business_ situation and he offered me a place with him.”

Ben sounded grateful, but I was reading between the lines. Of _course_ Snoke would have taken advantage of an alienated kid with a belly full of rage and a massive chip on his shoulder.

Everyone in Ben’s life had failed him, his parents, his family, even his God.

Snoke got his claws into Ben at the _perfect_ time.

Things made more and more sense by the minute, not that any of it was very comforting.

But Ben’s voice still held traces of idolization as he told me how Snoke gave him a gun and trusted him with tens of thousands of dollars in drugs and cash, how, together they’d crafted his alter ego, Kylo Ren.

And while everyone who worked for Snoke only knew Kylo Ren to be a fearless, merciless henchman from nowhere, Snoke and Ben had many discussions about his conflicted past.

Snoke assured him his grandfather must have been extraordinarily intelligent to have gone so long without getting caught. He said he respected a man who would so ruthlessly pursue his own interests, and that Anakin Skywalker reminded him of himself.

Someone not to be fucked with.

Ben had _never_ heard such affirmation for a man who’d been a symbol of evil all his life, but Snoke’s words rang true and were all the permission he needed to abandon his old ways and fully embody his own natural inclinations for murder and mayhem. Snoke counseled him and assigned him increasingly brutal “jobs”, and when Ben never faltered, never showed signs of remorse or hesitation, Snoke only upped the ante, only to find _Kylo Ren_ had no limits as to what he was willing to do for his new master.

Snoke would have been everything Ben ever would have wanted in a father, the exact opposite of Han Solo, powerful and decisive, not ruled by any law but his own. And Ben deeply admired this and emulated it.

I was sure in Snoke’s eyes Ben would have been an expendable means to be used and discarded as needed. But Ben wouldn’t have seen it that way.

But I could see how Snoke played on the philosophy Ben’s own parents had projected on him from birth.

He was already fated for Hell, but instead of trying to change his eternal destiny, Snoke encouraged Ben to embrace his naturally violent and dark ambitions, urging him to be a monster in this life, since the next one was already set.

Ben did ever-worse things for Snoke, eventually killing a rival dealer in cold blood.

Snoke told him he’d shown initiative and gave him his very first _pet,_ some coked-out whore, and watched him rape her right there in his office.

“I’d never had sex before, but I’d _seen_ plenty enough to know how things worked,” Ben recalled.

My stomach crawled with intense disgust, but Ben kept talking.

“Snoke said I could do what I wanted with her, so I took her back to my apartment, but she kept wanting to leave. Had to keep her so drugged out of her fucking gourd, though, and she got boring _real_ quick. Still, I couldn’t have her running off and causing trouble.”

When the whore tried to run, he’d tracked her down and killed her.

By then, he’d developed a taste for _company_. He knew on some level it was wrong, but he wanted to try, try to have a normal life, like on the wholesome TV shows he watched as a kid, when his parents hadn’t banned him from television altogether.

So, he found another girl. And another.

By the fourth one, he had bought his cute little house in the suburbs and been hired as a cop. But he’d worked even farther up in Snoke’s operation, using his day job to facilitate his dealing and to help Snoke build a criminal empire.

Ben’s “pets” as he called them, were always addicts. Easier to keep them around, although he had to keep the house kinda bare-bones with furniture and shit or they’d just rob him blind.

“So…Rose? Was a drug addict?” I’d whispered, dismayed.

“Yeah, but she never liked needles. She came to work for me when she couldn’t afford her habit anymore.”

Guilt writhed through me at the thought. She couldn’t afford her _habit_ because our joint fortune-telling con barely paid the bills.

“She was smart. Helped me deal for a while. Delivered a lot of horse in places where I couldn’t go without being recognized. I wanted to use her for more, so I told her she’d need to let her old life go, cut her friends loose.”

Of course she would have lied about getting married instead of telling me she was going to go work full-time for a drug dealer.

“What happened to her?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Her sister died in a gang fight.”

I remembered hearing about that. 

“After that, she started snorting whatever she could, didn’t care and couldn’t work. Couldn’t control herself. All she cared about was her next fix. Was always stoned out of her mind and _man_ did she have a sassy mouth on her. I tried to get her to stop it, but she never did. Anyhow, one day I wasn’t paying attention and left some H at home with a few syringes. Came back and found her with a needle hangin’ outta her arm…dead on the floor, right about where I found you that day.”

“So, she overdosed?”

“Yeah. She lasted a good long while, though. I knew I’d kinda miss her. I thought I’d keep her near.”

“So…you buried her in the backyard?” 

“Yeah.” I didn’t know if that made me feel better or worse.

“Rosie was a good one. Not like some of the others. I figured I owed her people some kind of notice she was dead. I was going to go tell you, actually, since she didn’t have any other family I could track down. Was going to tell you she’d died that day…but then…when I actually met you…well.”

I clearly remembered it.

“I saw you and right away…I could tell you liked me. And then you told me my fortune and it was the first time in my life I believed in a prophecy. You said I’d find the love of my life and be _happy_ and have a family and…I could tell you were talking about what _you_ wanted because Rosie used to talk about you, and she said the same thing…so I went home and spent the next week getting the house ready. Because I knew you’d be stubborn, resist at first. You’d fight it.”

Yeah. To be fair, I wasn’t hooked on drugs like the others.

He squeezed me and murmured, “But you came around. Just like I knew you would.”

* * *

I stare at Snoke, rather in shock.

“Oh…yes…he…always thought he wanted true love and a family,” Snoke sneered as if the words themselves were ridiculous. “But that wasn’t what he _really_ needed. Not an animal like him. I just needed to redirect that misguided upbringing of his. It was almost too easy. Pathetic. I gave him his very first girl, did you know?”

“I knew about her already. He told me.”

“Watched him fuck the whore right here on this desk.” Snoke slaps the top of his desk with the flat of his palm.

Wrath boils in my chest and I sort of wish looks could kill. I’m sure I could melt this fucker into a puddle of steaming goo, if it were possible.

Snoke narrows his eyes then bellows with sudden laughter as if he’s reading my mind. I _hate_ him.

“Hmmm.” He gives me a speculative leer. “Let’s have a look at your back, my dear. I hear it’s quite a sight to behold.”

I shake my head, obstinately.

“Take that top off for me, girl,” he orders. “Or I’ll have my men come in here and help. Before I kill you with the cruelest stroke. I’ll make Ren do it himself. And if you thought Hux was bad…you have _no_ idea who you’re fucking with, my dear. Of the things I can make Kylo Ren do to you.”

Snoke’s eyes glitter with malice and I clench my jaw at his unspoken implication.

“Ben won’t hurt me.” My voice is all shaky and tears sting the backs of my eyes.

“You think you can control an animal like him? Foolish child. He’s a rabid cur, and nothing more. You don’t have the first clue how to handle a creature like him, for all your spirit.” Snoke catches sight of my tears and continues relentlessly, “It’s a pity I’ll have to make him snuff it out. Isn’t that right, son?”

Ben steps into the room like a wraith. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there, listening.

“Yes, Master,” Ben murmurs respectfully.

Waves of nausea wash over me. Why is he talking like that? Like he’s on Snoke’s side?

“Where’s Hux?” Snoke bites out, eyes glittering with fury.

“Which piece?” Ben growls. “You did say you wanted him dealt with. I dealt with him.”

Snoke sighs and rubs a palm over his forehead, visibly aggravated. “Damn fucking idiot always takes me so fucking literally,” he says in a stage whisper to me. Like we’re friends.

This person is fucking insane, I realize. Snoke turns a beady eye to Ben and I have a strong sense of déjà vu, what with all the rapidly-shifting temperaments coming off the man.

But Ben is here, now.

“Hux got what was coming to him, same as you will,” I sneer, all bravado and adrenaline and absolutely nothing to back it up.

Snoke sighs again and says in a bored voice, “This girl believes she’s in charge right now, Ren, and I need you to make her _not_ believe it.”

Cruel fingers instantly grip my arm and whirl me around, spinning me so hard I stumble. Ben glares down at me so menacingly, I cringe. I’ll have bruises for weeks from how hard he grabbed me, but his fist comes flying out of nowhere and my mouth fills with blood and instant throbbing agony.

_What the fuck?_

“You’re not in charge,” he mutters. “Say it.”

I’ve gone cold inside, and my will to fight is dying by the second and I cannot fucking _believe_ this is happening.

“Fuck you!” I snarl, hawking a glob of snot and blood from the back of my throat and spitting it at him.

Ben glowers at me as if…as if I’m _nothing_ to him. I can’t fucking believe it.

Snoke laughs and claps his hands like he’s really getting a show and I ignore him, glaring at my husband, instead. Utterly betrayed.

Ben raises his hand again, his eyes flat and cold like a reptile’s, and I put my head down and run at him with every intention of knocking him on his ass, but he merely turns at the last second and grabs me by the hair, yanking hard enough to make me squeal in pain as he reverses my trajectory and hurls me into Snoke’s desk.

The edge bangs painfully into my hip and I shriek in fury. This cannot be real. No fucking way.

Snoke sounds positively giddy when he chuckles, “Kylo Ren sold his soul to me long before he ever met you, girl. And I’ll be around long after you’re gone. He’s like a son to me. He’d _never_ betray me, certainly not for some little gutter slut like you.”

Ben’s pushing me down until I’m bent at a terribly awkward angle. He slams my head into the surface of the desk, hard enough to make my ears ring. I look up and back and Snoke grins with malevolent amusement.

Ben’s leather-clad forearm presses down on my neck. He’s still wearing D.J.’s fucking jacket and it incenses me, but he presses harder and I can only look up at him, helpless and pleading, grasping at his arm to make him move. But he’s not budging.

He’s not even looking at me. He's watching Snoke and part of me realizes he’s waiting for the signal to kill.

Like a trained attack dog.

I can’t even fucking kick because I think if I do I might snap my spine over the edge of the desk, and I have never been so pissed off in my life. “You fucking bastard piece of shit worthless cocksucking _dog_!” The words come out rather choked, but I hope the pure spite behind them comes through my eyes.

Ben presses harder and his lip curls into a vicious snarl. “That’s not very nice, baby girl. You know I hate that filthy fucking mouth of yours.”

I’d spit on him again, but I don’t have any spit and all my blood is getting trapped behind the brutal crushing press of his arm.

“God, such melodrama,” Snoke purrs. “Shall I leave you two a moment?”

He pushes back from his desk to give Ben more room to choke me. And Ben glances down into my eyes and fire like the heat of Hell itself burns there.

And then he says, “Say bye-bye to Snoke, baby.”

And the relentless pressure on my windpipe lifts as Ben reaches around and back, behind my head, grappling briefly around the edge of the desk.

Where I know Snoke’s loaded pistol rests, mounted in a holster, pointed exactly where I stood a moment before.

The only weapon ever allowed in the room.

Ben is lightning-fast, and the gun is in his hand before I can blink, and if he is going to kill me with it, there’s nothing I can do but catch the deadly look in his eyes, but he lifts it, higher, then higher still, aiming from a lowered position which will help his aim – fewer micro-adjustments needed – and the sound of a gunshot rips the air apart and every molecule of oxygen in my lungs explodes in relief.

Snoke drops to the floor, a beautiful look of complete shock on his face, but I don’t have time to savor it because Ben is dragging me up and staring at my bare feet and pajamas with dismay.

“We’ve got to run for it, and his guards will have heard the shot. They’ll be here any second to check.”

I can hear the faintest echo of voices coming from down the hall and there’s no way out of here.

“Ben! There’s no way out…we’re trapped.” Think. Fucking think.

But he’s already checking the gun, muttering, " _Sig Sauer_ …”

He pushes the gun into my hands and grips my chin. “You’ve got seven rounds left and this fuckin’ thing has a hair-trigger. Try not to blow my fuckin’ head off. Stand over there.”

He pushes me to stand next to the door where Snoke’s guards are sure to come bursting through any second.

“Ben!” I cry. “Wait…what about the money?”

A grin slides over his face and he debates for half a second before running to Snoke’s desk and yanking open the drawers to look for the little black book. The one with all of Snoke’s offshore bank account numbers. The thing Ben told me if we could ever get our hands on would set us up for life…

But I already hear footsteps pounding down the hall, and I need to buy him a few seconds, so I fling open the door and fire a round before slamming the door shut and spinning away. I hear a yell and more footsteps and look at Ben to tell me what to do next.

Ben yells, “Got it!” just as something heavy slams into the door.

They’re here and we have six bullets left.

“Get back,” Ben barks and flings the door open, admitting two guards who come flying in so fast, he’s able to knock the first one’s arms down and the second one gets a shot in the face from me and _fuck!_ my gun has a kick, but now Ben has a gun, and he fires two rapid shots into the first guard’s forehead.

A staccato of bullets hammers the door, but it’s armored, so we’re okay for now, just trapped.

“How many more do you think there are?” I whisper.

“Depends.” Ben is pulling guns off the guards and a wicked-looking stiletto that makes his eyes flare with devilish glee. He flips it and whistles, impressed.

“Ben!” I hiss. “Pay attention.”

But he’s looking around the room and he growls, “Get in the holding tank.”

“The what?”

He grabs me by the back of the t-shirt and drags me to a set of bookshelves. Ah. The tiny, inescapable room where I spent the night.

“Ben, they’ll check in here, won’t they?”

“Yeah, probably, but not until I can take most of ‘em out.” Another hail of bullets slam into the door, and I feel like they are going to be in here any second.

“Then you come in here with me!” I hiss, immediately realizing how stupid that is. If he’s in here with me, they’ll know right away and just shoot us like fish in a barrel.

Ben’s breathing hard and he snaps, “Get your ass in there and shoot anyone who isn’t me.” He leans close and kisses me hard and I _can’t_ let that be our last kiss but he’s already pushing me inside and muttering, “I…meant it, Rey. When I said I loved ya.”

“Ben.” My eyes well with tears. This can’t be it. It just can’t be the end.

“…take good care of our baby, honey…”

And he shoves me inside and I crouch in the dark as I listen to more shots.

But these bullets aren’t hitting the armored door anymore. I imagine they’re spraying wildly around the room, and Ben’s out there and he’s going to die…

I try to open the door in the darkness, but there’s nothing, and I realize there’s a reason why he called this little nook the holding tank. I think this is where Snoke kept people until it was time for him to dole out whatever horrible fate he’d intended.

There’s no way out.

I’m trapped, like an animal in a cage.

* * *

He patted my arm and kissed the top of my head. I shifted in Ben’s lap so I could look at him, finally. Something dark and sorrowful moved in his eyes.

I tried to digest all of this, how the missing pieces had finally fallen into place. And underlying all of it I felt a vague sense of…compassion for this monster of a human being.

He held me, quietly lost in thought, too, I think. I’d almost drifted off when I finally remembered.

“Ben? When you said you baptized her…our baby…you never told me what you named her…”

“I named her after my father…Hannah.”

 _Hannah_. And suddenly everything was just so sad and confusing, I didn’t know what to think. A hot tear slipped down my face, and then another.

“But you _hated_ him. Why?”

“I didn’t hate him. Not really. I named her that…so I wouldn’t forget.”

“Forget?”

“My penance,” he said simply. “Because I’ll think about her every day of my life. And now I have to think about him, too.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER INCLUDE: Emotionally, physically, and mentally abusive childhood in a cult-like or near cult-like fanatical religious environment; also descriptions of elder abuse and murder, patricide, and the death of a pet. Additionally, includes discussion of drug abuse and gang violence, and several rapes either mentioned outright or alluded to. 
> 
> Ben’s backstory is not a happy one. 
> 
> One more chapter to go after this. XO...


	18. Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> I updated the description of this fic because this tale has evolved into something a helluva lot deeper than a cop-kidnaps-girl thriller, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed by now. 
> 
> While Rey is the narrator, unreliable though she may be, this story isn’t just about her. Not really. This story is also very much about Ben. 
> 
> We all have light and dark in us. Maybe not to the extremes represented in this story, but then again…maybe we do.
> 
> [Bye Bye Baby (Baby Goodbye), Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons](https://open.spotify.com/track/19P03BZeCThRBGIQHvtHta?si=2w2TamVgTnmncr5R2ELSxw)

# Chapter Eighteen – Retribution

ret·ri·bu·tion | \ ˌre-trə-ˈbyü-shən \

**Definition of _retribution_**

**1:** RECOMPENSE, REWARD

 **2:** the dispensing or receiving of reward or punishment especially in the hereafter

 **3:** something given or exacted in recompense _especially_ :PUNISHMENT

* * *

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe.

Ghostlike pains stab with every breath, each inhalation pulled cautiously through my teeth in case someone lingers nearby. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.

My entire existence twists down into one place, deep inside, into the part of me still clamoring for life, where I might set aside the aches gnawing into my bones and try to think.

_Ben._

He punched me. Choked me. And then he killed Snoke and said he loved me and locked me in here.

I can’t hear anything.

I try to focus. He is not here.

The stifling darkness obscures my prison, although I can see it in my mind’s eye.

I can’t see much, but I can think, despite the grinding pain at the edge of my mind. I use my other senses – smell, touch, hearing, taste – to take stock of my surroundings in the brief hiatus before he returns.

If. If he returns.

In addition to a sore throat and a bruised face, a sharper sting where my lip has split reminds me I will have to fight my way out of here if...

If he doesn’t come back.

I’m thirsty and cold.

My eyes snap open when I recognize the tread of booted feet moving close.

I am never filled with such perfect apprehension as I am at the sound of those measured thumps.

_…this fuckin’ thing has a hair trigger…_

I ready myself for anything as I listen intently to those steps. They grow softer – _someone’s out there_ – then louder, until they pause, right outside the door to this room.

My belly swoops with fear.

_…always take the sure shot…_

“Baby? It’s me, don’t shoot.”

It’s him. Thank God.

The door opens slowly, and gentle golden light spills around the edges to silhouette my rescuer.

It’s Ben. I lower my gun.

The door swings farther open and it’s still dark, except for a weird, wavering light.

“Hey, baby girl.”

Instead of howling with relief that he’s alive and okay, I react instinctively and grit out, “You ever punch me in the face again, I’ll take your fucking balls off, asshole.”

“Shit,” he chuckles, pulling me out of the closet-like room. His other hand holds a Zippo and I have a sneaking suspicion it once belonged to Nines.

I vividly remember the way Nines flicked that Zippo open and closed repeatedly while he waited his turn to rape me. I’m temporarily overwhelmed with gladness that disgusting piece of filth died horribly.

“What took you so long?” I gripe, tentative and shivering. “And what happened to the lights?”

I follow Ben, stepping around dark shapes on the floor. Bodies. Those are dead people.

“I shot out the lights before they busted in,” he tells me. “So they wouldn’t see I already killed Snoke. They wouldn’t risk firing blind and hurting him. I popped ‘em like ducks in a row before they figured it out. Then I made a round of the building, made sure they’re all gone.”

Oh. Well. Okay then.

Still, I’m barefoot and in pajamas and Snoke’s windowless office isn’t exactly warm and cozy. My teeth are fully chattering from the combination of adrenaline and the chill, and Ben pauses before we enter the dimly lit hallway, shrugging out of D.J.’s jacket for me. For once I’m not reluctant to wear the damned thing, especially because Ben’s residual warmth seeps into me and the jacket smells like him now.

“Will there be any more? Of them?”

“Nah, but Phasma might come sniffing around…nosy cunt…” Ben’s disdainful tone echoes my own sentiment for the woman.

“Who _is_ she?” I ask as we approach the building’s exit. Nobody’s around, and outside it feels early still.

“Hux’s best lieutenant. They worked together for years. Not sure how she found you, though.”

“She had a tracking app on his phone. Which I can’t believe you were stupid enough to miss.” I bite out this last, outraged.

He glowers at me and grunts, “I _didn’t_ miss the phone. I needed it to make a call or two after we took him…”

“What? Why?”

“Well, it woulda looked suspicious if he’d just disappeared, baby. I didn’t want Snoke’s guys sniffing around. Had to make it look like Hux was gonna pull a fast one…that’s why Snoke wanted Hux _taken care of_ …remember?”

_Damn fucking idiot always takes me so fucking literally…_

Oh. I guess it makes sense, although I’m still vaguely grumpy.

We hop in the Mustang, and Ben chucks our guns into the glove compartment. Mine still has bullets in it, but he tells me his is empty. 

He casts me an admiring look as he puts the car in gear and pulls out of the parking lot.

“You are one tough little bitch, you know that?”

“What?”

“I was trying to knock you out cold before Snoke could shoot you. Figured I’d get you safe outta the way, then jump him and hope for the best. But you wouldn’t go down. Hard as nails.”

My aggravation flares to life and I reply acidly, “Well, don’t fucking hit me again, Ben. I _mean_ it.”

“Oh, calm down,” he snorts, flipping on the radio. “You’re fine.”

I sniff and open my mouth to disagree, but he interrupts, unwilling to let me have the last word, “Woulda been a helluva lot worse if Snoke had gut-shot ya with that .45.”

I close my mouth and decide to let it go. He’s right. Getting shot would have sucked.

He’s taking an unfamiliar route, staying off the highway. I ask him why and he says he doesn’t feel like being spotted by any of his _co-workers_ since he called in sick today.

While he drives, I feel inside the pockets of D.J.’s jacket and pull out Snoke’s little black book. Curiously, I examine it only to groan in dismay when I discover none of it makes any sense at all.

“Ben! This thing’s written in code. We’ll never figure it out.”

“Well… _shit_ ,” he grunts. He doesn’t look too worked up over this little setback, which irritates me. I look for something else to pick at. He’s doing exactly the speed limit when I notice the fuel indicator hovering around empty.

“We’re almost out of gas,” I point out, tucking the book back into D.J.’s pocket next to Nines’ Zippo. I’m still mildly pissed at Ben, _especially_ for hanging onto Hux’s phone. And for punching me. And choking me.

He catches me glaring and chuckles, “You get so fuckin’ cranky if you miss a meal, I swear to God.”

He drives for a minute and pulls into an abandoned-looking little Mom and Pop gas station.

“Put twenty bucks on pump one and buy yourself a bite to eat, baby girl.”

He presses a wad of cash into my hand, shaking his head as I stomp into the tiny gas station barefoot and irritable – mostly because he’s right again, dammit. I wordlessly slap a twenty on the counter so Ben can pump his damned gas, then prowl up and down the aisles searching for something to eat.

I almost would have missed it, but a flash of chrome catches my eye when a car parks behind the Mustang.

The sight of a six-foot-tall blonde exiting the vehicle with a gun drawn makes my pulse skitter to a full stop.

Fucking Gwen. _Phasma_.

I hear a shot and hope to God Ben is smart enough to duck.

He’s not armed, and the gas tank is on the driver’s side…and he just left his only weapon in the glove box. On the opposite fucking side of the car.

I hear another blast and Ben hollering. He’d better not be fucking shot.

No, I can hear him. That bitch has him pinned down.

“You got wi-fi?” I shout to the lone attendant behind the counter who’s staring outside, alarmed.

He grunts a distracted “no” and I approach, smooth and deadly, walking behind the counter to stand in front of him. I make a lucky guess.

He’s so gob-smacked at my boldness, it never occurs to him to stop me as I lean down, dig around under the counter and find a shotgun lying there.

A Remington. Pump action. _Nice_.

Only problem is it’s only loaded for a suicide special. One shot.

 _Dammit fuck_.

I’m out of time. I point the gun and glare at the clerk. “You got security cameras?”

“Just closed circuit…” He looks terrified. 

I narrow my eyes, trying to look threatening. “You lyin’? Those cameras feed to some security company?”

“Lady, I just said we don’t have wi-fi…they can’t afford the fancy stuff…I swear!”

I believe him. I glance outside again.

Ben is crouched next to the gas pump, holding the nozzle open, spilling fuel all over the ground. Phasma won’t risk shooting at him like that, but the pump is going to stop the minute Ben's twenty bucks runs out –

…and she doesn’t know I’m in here…

“Gimme your phone and ID and don’t try to pull any moves, kid. Hurry!”

The “kid” has got to be at least five years older than I am, but semantics.

The clerk puts his ID and phone on the counter.

“Turn on all the pumps.”

“What?”

“Do it!” I snarl, pointing the gun at him. He starts pushing buttons while I tuck his ID into my pocket, making a show of it so he sees. 

“Now I know where you live. If anyone asks. My boyfriend out there is one bad motherfucker. And if I end up in jail? You’re gonna end up taking a _very_ long nap. Got it?”

He nods and I know I’ve scared him.

“Well? Then get the _fuck_ outta here!”

He doesn’t hesitate to scramble out the back, hopefully headed for the exit, although I’m sure he’s headed for a phone to call the cops.

_Worry about that later._

Okay. I have one shot, no shoes, and a closed-circuit TV system recording everything that is happening. I don’t have time to figure out how to switch off the cameras or destroy the recordings.

But I do have the element of surprise, and I intend to use it. Phasma’s facing partially away from me, on the opposite side of the station, focused on Ben.

That bitch is gonna die. Right fucking now.

I follow where the kid exited out the back so I can circle around to the gas pumps behind that big blonde bitch.

Thank goodness Ben has the world’s best poker face, because I’m sure by the little squeal from _Gwen_ when I shove the barrel of my gun into her spine, she isn’t expecting me.

“Drop it.”

“You. _Bitch_ ,” she hisses, even as she drops her gun.

“Go back to your car and we’ll let you live. Come after us? And I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Ben gives her a shit-eating grin.

“She’s hungry,” he remarks as I prod her with my shotgun. “Gets real cranky when she hasn’t eaten for a while.”

“Get in the car, _Kylo_ ,” I bark. We don’t have much time.

“Ooooh, yes, _ma’am_ ,” he replies, dropping the pump he’s holding and obeying me without argument.

“Move it, bitch,” I spit.

Phasma reluctantly strides to her car and climbs in the back seat.

“You’re dead meat, you little slut.”

I pretend to ignore the undiluted venom in her tone, but my heart is pounding.

I flick the child safety lock on the back door and slam it shut, keeping my gun trained on her until I’m almost to the Mustang.

The fire in her eyes is enough to tell me if this doesn’t work, I’m _fucked_.

I shoot out her front tire with my single shot, then whirl and run for the Mustang.

Ben pops the passenger door for me as I splash barefoot through the gasoline pooling beneath our cars. I should mention the _additional_ gasoline I set to pump all over the ground along with Ben’s, right before I got the jump on Phasma.

It’s still spewing out of the other pumps when I hop in the car and spin to watch through the rear window as Phasma clambers to the other side of her car.

“Go, _go!_ ” I yell, flicking Nines’ Zippo to life and rolling down the window to toss it out.

“You devious _bitch,_ ” he breathes as he stomps on the gas, and I look back one last time to catch the panicked look on Phasma’s face as we peel away.

She’s _furious_ and I grin and wave, mouthing the words “Bye-bye.”

Maybe that was petty. But I really fucking hate her.

For half a second, everything flutters and _glows_ as a million tongues of flame catch and crawl unbelievably fast across the large puddle of fuel, all the way to the still-open pump. Heat and light lick up the sides of the pumps, across the pavement, and all around Phasma’s car, like in slow motion before a sudden roar spews fire and death so completely it gives me goosebumps.

And then the morning groans and shudders and _burns_ , blindingly bright as a tremendous rumble booms through the air.

Huge chunks of metal and shrapnel and gas station rain down, turning the world into an instant, fiery hellscape.

Ben curses, “Oh, shit!” and accelerates.

It’s an inferno. I'm looking at the inside of Hell itself and heat and fire belches forth in another ground-shaking explosion.

It’s beautiful.

I turn wide-eyed to Ben. _Holy fucking shit. I just blew up a gas station._

“Why didn’t you just _shoot_ her?” Ben finally growls, checking the rearview mirror before we round a corner and lose sight of the fire.

“Because,” I snap, heart still pounding hard, “I only had _one_ shot and it was birdshot and I couldn’t risk it not killing her. She had a gun on you, in case you forgot.”

_And because I wanted to really make it hurt._

He mutters knowingly about my so-called “mean streak” and his eyes linger on the rearview mirror until I order, “Pay attention to the road, goddammit.”

He turns his attention back to his driving and I sigh, still defensive. “Besides, I had to destroy the evidence. They had cameras.”

The insistence in my voice hints this last is solid justification, but it rings a little hollow.

I just really wanted to blow that bitch to Kingdom Come.

Not that Ben’s arguing.

I look back one last time and see an enormous plume of smoke lifting gracefully into the sky. My stomach grumbles loudly.

He grins and shakes his head and some of the angst I’m feeling dissipates. I don’t know if I love him or hate him half the time, but it smells like gasoline in the car and suddenly I’m _starving_.

And when Ben drives me through McDonald’s without me even having to ask for it…I decide I might be sort of madly in love with him after all.

It doesn’t fully hit me until I’m home and in the shower, rinsing gasoline from my feet, dizzy with exhaustion and nerves.

I could have died. Ben could have been killed. Or Snoke could have just executed me. Or tortured me first, _then_ executed me.

Phasma could have come after us later, in a less-advantageous-for-us scenario.

“How did you know where I was?” I call out. Ben is hanging out in the bathroom, keeping me company while I clean up.

“Phasma left a note. Wanted to trade you for Hux. Looked like she combed through the house but didn’t take anything.”

I’m glad we don’t keep the brick of H or our cash on the property, otherwise I’m positive she would’ve taken it and risked the consequences. Not that it matters now.

She’s dead.

But my hands shake as I rinse my hair.

Two of the guys who attacked me are still alive and we have no idea where they are, and they know _exactly_ where we are.

I try to push that thought away, but once it sinks its claws in, I can’t make it leave.

_Safety is an illusion. The wolves are out there, always waiting._

And even though Ben swears they have disappeared and aren’t likely to come sniffing around again, we don’t know for sure. And we won’t. Not until they’re dead.

Over the next month, I devote a ridiculous amount of time poring over Snoke’s book, trying to decipher the mystery code and wishing Ben hadn’t been so hasty to murder that asshole.

Ben could have gotten him to talk, I’m sure of it.

Until we figure out the codes to Snoke’s accounts, we decide Ben should stay with the police department. Since he isn’t dealing drugs, he’s home a lot more. He spends time in his toolshed puttering around or working on the yard or doing little fix-it projects around the house.

And…he’s the sweet and kind and tender Ben, the one who pets my hair and gives me whatever I want. The soft, doting husband who makes love with the gentlest touches and achingly devastating passion, who happily does chores and cooks dinner every night and likes to watch corny TV shows.

I discover the neighbors _adore_ him, as I’ve taken to venturing into the neighborhood more frequently. I can converse rather fluently about remodeling and superficial, petty things like finding matching towels and thread counts and shopping for appliances.

Mrs. Holdo often stops in for a cup of tea and bit of gossip. I secretly wonder if she has any idea I spent a week at her house recovering from being brutally raped and tortured by a pack of drug dealers…

Mrs. Holdo has purple hair and is rather nosy, but I don’t mind too much. It feels like I have a friend, maybe even a sort of aunt or older sister or something.

Lando comes for dinner a few times. We never discuss Ben’s past, but Lando tells a few amazing stories from his younger, more adventuresome days. His occasional mention of Han Solo always sends a pang through my heart, especially when I think of Hannah, but Lando is sensitive enough to keep mention of Ben’s dad to a minimum for Ben’s sake.

When we have company, I find myself rather proud of the house, especially because it looks like nice, normal people live here. I’m learning how to bake cookies and pies and even a cake one time, although it came out rather lopsided.

Ben chuckled and shook his head telling me he never was good at baking, himself. Never liked having to measure precisely and follow directions and can’t understand why he can’t just throw things together and make it taste good like he does when he cooks.

I feel like I have a family now, and it’s what I’ve always wanted. My life is a dream, full of busy housewifey things during the day and blissfully passionate nights in the arms of my sweet monster.

But despite all this, a nagging sensation won’t leave me alone.

This doesn’t really feel _over_.

The more I dwell on it, the worse it gets. My nightmares come back full swing, only now instead of just Hux coming for me, it’s _all_ of them, all the dead ones, at least.

_Teedo_

_D.J._

_Bala-Tik_

_Nines_

_Hux…_

And even Snoke and Phasma, too.

A few days later, I’m napping on the sofa when Ben is at work. I’ve been so tired, lately. I’m seriously starting to suspect I might be pregnant again.

I wake groggily and immediately sense a strange presence hovering over me.

I blink awake and there’s a stranger there, standing two feet away, watching me sleep.

Just as I open my mouth to scream, he steps away and holds up his hands. “Wait, oh wow, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

I clutch a throw pillow to my chest, heart pounding as I look around for the nearest escape route or a weapon or both.

“Wh-what do you want? Who the fuck are you?”

“Hey! Language!” he chides. But he grins at me and I realize his voice is familiar…Oh. _Oh!_

He confirms my dawning suspicion with a gentle, “I’m Ben’s uncle, Luke.”

Uncle Luke. The doctor or priest…Luke the murderer.

“How did you get in here? What are you doing?”

“Well the back door was unlocked, and it’s been a while since I popped by for a visit.” His bright blue eyes twinkle with friendly charm and I almost smile in return before he kills my humor with, “You look better since the last time we met.”

“Ben didn’t mention we were having visitors,” I snap.

Suddenly, this guy is creeping me the fuck out. I want him gone, but I’m sort of afraid to piss him off.

“Maybe I’ll come back when Ben’s around…” Luke murmurs, reading my hostile emotions like an open book and glancing curiously around the room.

“Yeah. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

Oh, Ben’s going to hear about this.

Luke leaves without much fuss, but I’m on edge for the rest of the day.

But when Ben comes home later and I tell him what happened, he just chuckles, “Oh, shit! Baby, I forgot to mention Luke comes skulking around every couple years, looking for his journals and hinting he wants them back. _Damn_. I’m sorry he scared you, honey.”

Ben tries to give me a comforting hug, but I shove him away, enraged and confused.

Tears stream down my cheeks and I try to get a grip on myself before I do something I can’t take back.

“Ben, he just walked right in, right through the back door and I was…I was _sleeping_ and totally fucking helpless and he was fucking watching me, he could’ve done anything. It could have been anyone!”

My voice is getting louder, and I’m having trouble catching my breath.

“Aw, dammit,” Ben mutters, pulling me close. I pound my fist on his chest with futile anger.

“I know. I know, baby. Okay. I’ll take care of it.”

“How?” I whimper. “I can’t…I can’t live like this.”

He cocks his head. “I’ll _take care of it_ ,” he assures me. I think he can read the question in my eyes when he smiles. “I’m not gonna _kill_ him. Shit. I’ll just make sure he won’t come around again, okay?”

He squeezes me and I take a few shuddering breaths, trying to calm down. I’m sure I’m overreacting, and I don’t know why. I let him buss his lips against mine and try to collect myself so I can help him start on dinner.

But my fear comes flooding back later that night when I wake in a cold sweat, screaming.

I’m still in the residual throes of my nightmare, clinging to Ben in the darkness of our room, grasping his t-shirt, wet with tears.

“…they know where we live,” I mumble. “We should move. Far away.”

I can feel him shaking his head in the dark. He grows chilly for the first time in ages. “No.”

“What? Why? They know we’re here and–”

“I’m not leaving Hannah. No.”

“But how can we be sure they won’t come back?” I argue.

“Because they won’t,” he insists quietly. “They aren’t that stupid. Leech would never risk running across me again and Shand does whatever Leech does. Now, go back to sleep.”

“Well, you can’t fucking dodge bullets in your sleep, Ben. But if we just _move_ –”

“Rey, _fuck_. I said it’s fine. I have eyes and ears out for both of them. If they so much as take a shit within city limits, I’ll know about it. Now, drop it.” His arms tense around me, and I know I’m making him upset.

“But–”

“If you fucking think I’m leaving her all alone here after everything, after _everything_ that’s happened,” he hisses, “you’re outta your goddammed mind. It’s not happening. Now shut. The fuck up. And go to sleep. Please.”

He sighs the last, but his fingers tighten in warning. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to indicate this conversation is over.

I could keep arguing. He hasn’t laid a hand on me since Snoke’s, and I don’t think he will again…but I don’t want to risk it.

Mostly because I don’t want to have to follow through with my promise to castrate him if he ever does it again.

I'm still shaky as I tuck myself against him. 

Ben holds me and whispers soothing nonsense until I eventually stop shivering, rocking me back into a troubled sleep. I just let him do whatever he wants.

But as I drift off, I think.

I feel like I'm standing in front of a door and I have to make a choice.

Unless.

Unless I’m pregnant. Then I don’t have a choice.

I’m not losing another one.

I _will_ survive, goddammit. And so will my child.

That’s just the kind of animal I am. 

The next morning, I wake up alone and run to the bathroom, sick to my stomach. After puking my guts out and realizing Ben already left for work, I drive to Wal-Mart to buy a pregnancy test.

And I when I get home, I sit in the garage for a long time. Thinking.

Then I go inside and pee on the little white stick.

My mind is strangely numb as I wait. But when I finally work up the courage to look at the little lines and see what I _knew_ would be there…

Reality washes over me like cold water. I’ve been asleep, mindlessly performing a dance routine I learned by heart.

Because I didn’t have a choice.

And then I changed. I did what I had to do. To survive.

But I also did things I _didn't_ have to do. I got Teedo killed. Helped torture Hux. Watched Ben do terrible things. Destroyed property and killed and lied and did it all on purpose, for no other reason than I wanted to.

I adapted and changed the steps and made Ben fall in love with me...I think I accidentally fell in love with him, too.

But.

I worked so hard to make him into my pet monster, it never occurred he did the exact same thing to me.

I became exactly what he wanted all along. He said he didn’t want to keep me chained up like an animal, and I believe he sincerely meant it.

I know down to the marrow in my bones he’s meant every word he’s ever said to me.

He won’t ever leave this place. He has his reasons. I _know_ this.

But he’s chained himself here, and I _can’t_ …I can’t wear those chains, too.

This isn’t about just me anymore.

And I can’t stay when there are still two other monsters out there. I can’t live in this house, not when they know where I live. It’s too much of a risk.

I can’t be here and be pregnant. I can’t lose another one.

I will not.

The only thing I can do is take what’s been given to me and try to salvage it.

The future isn’t set in stone. It’s like water, moving around me, constantly shifting.

I just have to find the strength to do what needs to be done.

I’m washing up after dinner and Ben has been outside for over an hour. I just finish cleaning the sink when he comes into the kitchen to see if I need any help.

I’m jittery, nervous, but very good at hiding it by now. As always, he can’t seem to keep his hands off me, and he buries his face in my hair and breathes hotly over my ear, sending pleasantly warm shivers tingling down to my toes.

“Mmmmmhhh…you always smell so _delicious._ ” He kisses the side of my neck until I cling to the edge of the sink so I don’t fall over because it feels so good.

My nose catches an odd scent and I turn around. “Why do you smell like smoke?”

He pulls me close for a ravishing kiss that weakens my knees and makes desire throb hungrily between my legs.

“I burned some things,” he whispers against my lips.

“What things?”

“… _hhhmmm_ …things I was holding onto…that I needed…to let go of…”

He punctuates his remark with soft, sucking kisses along my jaw and collarbone and his face is scratchy with whiskers.

I plunge my fingers through his gorgeous, silky hair and kiss him back. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of the heat of him, of his brute animal power, barely held in check beneath a very thin veneer of suburban neutrality.

But I’m running out of time, and I need to make this count, every second of it. Because this is the last time I plan on doing this. Ever.

Sensing my urgency, he kisses me more aggressively, his tongue plundering my mouth like an invading Hun, fingers digging into my hips and backside until I gasp and tighten my grip on his hair.

Part of me thrills to know he’s still a wild creature beneath his nicely pressed shirts and neatly trimmed nails and soft kisses. A beast under the surface, even if he only occasionally brings it out for me these days.

I trace the faint scar slashing his eyebrow and cheek, sentimental. He seems too attentive, picking up on whatever vibe I’m emitting, so I try for a distraction. “I want you.”

He licks his teeth, not hesitating to spin me around and roughly unbutton my jeans, grinding his crotch against my butt, sweeping his hands under my t-shirt to find my breasts and squeeze them until the tips harden into tight buds and I groan loudly.

He’s so focused on my breasts and I wonder wildly if he _knows_ , if he can _tell_ just by the way I’m reacting, extra sensitive to his touch. He pinches my nipples until I gasp at the pleasure-pain. I feel another press of him against my butt, crushing against me until I groan.

His hands push under my jeans and he drags them down, but only partway so my thighs are trapped. He pushes my shirt up and spins me roughly, and I cling to him as he lifts me to sit on the counter, before he bends to suck at my breasts until I’m panting.

His dark eyes flash up to meet mine and I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

He scuffs his whiskers against me, tongue flicking out to catch at the soft skin over my ribs and chest and neck until I’m squirming, wordlessly begging for more.

“Anything you need to tell me, honey?” he croons, caressing me so softly I _ache_. I cover a wince at the tender soreness and shake my head _no_.

“You sure?” He squeezes me again and my heart begins to thump unevenly.

_Shit. He knows. How? How does he know?_

His jaw clenches and he grinds out, “I found the receipt in the car. For the pregnancy test. You take it yet?”

I swallow. _Dammit_. He never misses a thing. Fucking cops.

I nod.

“And?” He tilts my face to meet his and I shake my head _no_ again. He cocks his head and I shiver at the shrewd gleam in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper sincerely, meeting his eyes. It’s the truth, even if he doesn’t know what I’m really apologizing for.

Because I’m lying my ass off.

But, I don’t have a choice anymore.

He can’t know. If he knows the truth, he’ll _never_ let me go.

And I _have_ to get the fuck out of here. It's long past time for me to leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW. I know I said one more chapter last time. But, well. I just really wanted to give Phasma a glorious end. And I always had it in my mind to have Rey blow up a gas station at some point. AND MOST OF THE LAST CHAPTER IS ALMOST FINISHED ALREADY, so it won't be too long of a wait. Also, we needed just a tinge more smut. Because I said so. 
> 
> I love you, I love your comments and kudos and tweets and all of it. This story means a lot to me, and your sharing it with me means more than you will ever know. XOXO...


	19. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Steady, As She Goes, The Raconteurs](https://open.spotify.com/track/19iqWNzp5LwEdvntpEK8MP?si=7bDm5hpBT9-1mAZ-8a-hxQ)

# 

# Chapter Nineteen – Redemption

* * *

He bites the inside of his cheek, still watching me, calculating. “Why are you so touchy, then? Hmm?”

I shrug. “Probably gonna start my period any day now,” I suggest lamely.

He grunts, and I give him a breathless laugh and hope it’s convincing.

His eyes flicker to mine, looking for lies, but I’ve made up my mind, and now I have to see this through to the end.

Methodically, he unbuckles and pulls off his belt, and the sinister purpose of his actions sends an involuntary shiver through me.

His mood is pure quicksilver right now.

He might be in the mood for something a little rougher than we’ve done for a while, although I know how much he likes it. But, as much as I’m hoping to bluff my way out of this, I know if I let him take things too far, I’ll have to stop him before we get carried away or admit I lied about being pregnant.

I’m rather relieved when he wraps his belt into a few loops and sets it next to me on the counter before stripping my pants the rest of the way off.

He sounds resigned when he bites out, “Rey. You really are the stupidest fucking cunt I’ve ever met.”

“What?” _Dammit_.

“You think I can’t tell when you’re lying to me by now?” He’s growing upset and I can’t help another shiver.

“What are you talking about?”

“The _lying_. You don’t have to lie so fucking much.” The desolate appeal nearly startles me into admitting the truth. But I’m in too deep now. I have to play this hand through to the end.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer, and I decide to continue feigning ignorance at his accusation. I’m distracted anyhow, because he’s pressing closer, pushing me back until my head knocks against the cabinet door behind me.

He’s watching me with that patient, devouring look he gets sometimes. But he does nothing more threatening than murmur, “Never mind,” and bend his head to kiss me.

His mouth is hot and warm, and I fumble to unzip his jeans, palming the rigid length of him through his boxers until he gasps.

He kisses his way down to my neck, and I feel him sweep his hands over the gnarled scars on my back, pressing lightly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers and pushes his tongue into my mouth, stroking crudely, eagerly, as he pulls my hips close and wraps my legs around him. He sighs and I can tell he’s let it go. “So…you wanna get fucked good and hard…or should I draw this out for a while?”

“… _yes_ …”

I smile to keep from bursting into tears. He kicks off his shoes and shucks his jeans right there in the kitchen and hauls me off the counter, carrying me to our room.

On the way I cling to him, kissing his neck and inhaling his scent for the last time. He still smells just faintly of smoke, and I ask, “What were you burning outside?”

He tosses me onto our bed, still rumpled from this morning, and says quietly, “I got rid of Uncle Luke’s books. Called him and told him I wouldn’t hold it over him anymore. Said he’d best not come over again without calling first.”

 _Oh_. “What did he say to that?”

“He said he understood and…”

Ben pauses.

“And what?”

“He said he knows God sees all, and God knows about his merciful works anyhow. And it won’t matter much on account a him dying soon.”

“Dying soon?”

“He was diagnosed with cancer. Terminal. That’s why he came by one last time. Wanted to set things right before he goes to meet his Maker.”

“Oh.” I feel a pang of guilt at my rudeness last time we spoke.

Ben strips off his t-shirt and crawls onto the bed to hover over me.

“Hmmm,” he purrs, evaluating. “I think we’ll draw this out…”

And he pins my wrists into the mattress and does his very best to kiss the breath out of me so sweetly I want to cry.

His head is heavy, but I don't mind the weight.

I watch him sleep.

He looks so innocent like this. Vulnerable. Weary.

As promised, he’d kissed me for ages before sweeping my shirt over my head. He was so gentle it hurt. Not physically.

No, it hurt my heart.

He kissed me softly. Slowly. Like he was sorry. Like our old familiar ritual.

And it was heaven and hell at the same time.

He flipped me onto my stomach and kissed my scars. The burns first, then his words. Every single letter. Then he rolled me onto my back and lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed his way up my arm, lingering forever on the inside of my elbow where the needles used to go.

“Ben. Please.” I whispered.

His dark eyes burned into mine and I knew in that moment it was real.

The feel of his mouth on me, pulling so tenderly at the sensitive peaks of my breasts, lighting so reverently over my ribs and belly and hips, it was torture, warm and wet and delicious. He put his mouth between my legs and kissed me there so passionately I begged him to stop. But he didn’t stop, not until I shattered into a million pieces, broken and breathless and dizzy.

And when he pushed my thighs apart and slid inside with a hoarse grunt and a wild kiss that tasted of passion and pleasure and pain, I begged him _not_ to stop. I didn’t want it to end, Ben and me together. He threaded his fingers through my hair and murmured wordless things, drawing me into a fevered state until a tear slipped down my cheek. And the way he looked at me, I could tell.

He _knew_.

I could see it, solid and clear.

He _knows_ me. Down to the marrow of my bones. Because we’re the same.

And he could see it when I knew, too.

He said it again, at the end. That he loved me. He said it a few times as he looked into my eyes and came, rough and gentle at the same time. _I love you._

And I didn’t say it back.

I couldn’t do it. Not knowing I’m leaving in the morning.

I could tell it hurt him, after. I could feel his disappointment hanging thickly in the air between us as we lay tangled together in the sweaty, breathless aftermath. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I couldn't do that either, not without giving away my plans.

But he just whispered, “It’s okay.” And then he shifted until his head rested on my chest and he fell asleep.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. Once I would have paid _anything_ , any price, to be able to cry. Now I wish I could stop.

He sleeps and I imagine the sound of my heartbeat soothes him. I don’t imagine he’s ever been soothed before. I wonder how many times he’s ever been on the receiving end of a caring touch, a kind gesture. How many times in his whole life has he ever been loved just as he is, unconditionally. 

I stroke his hair, but softly so I don’t wake him.

I think he’s like the fur coat the old woman brought me that day. Alluring and beautiful and irresistible and sad because it can't really belong anywhere, nor to anyone, not really.

I fall asleep wondering whatever happened to that old coat.

I’m dreaming, dreaming of a wolf. I am in a forest and I’m chasing him, but he’s fast, nearly impossible to catch. Every time I get close, he bares his teeth and darts away.

But just when I think he's gone I see him, there, just ahead, caught in a hunter’s trap.

I approach, carefully. He’s snarling and snapping his teeth at me, of course he is, he's been hurt so many times, but I stretch out my hand. I can tell he wants to be good, but he can’t help his wolf nature, either.

“Your real name is Ben,” I tell him. “There’s still light in you.”

My words seem to infuriate him, but I know he cannot hurt me. I want to help him break free from the trap, but he howls when I reach for him. I’m too close. Too close.

And I realize I’m a wolf, too.

I want one last touch. I reach again, terribly aware of his pleading eyes, butterscotch spiked with shades of amber and gold.

Just before I sink my hands into his silky-soft fur he disappears, and I hear him say in Ben’s voice, “Good-bye, Rey.”

It doesn’t strike me as odd until I wake again in the bright morning sunshine and realize Ben is not there.

At first, I assume he’s gone to work for the day, but his patrol car is parked in front of the house and the Mustang is still in the garage.

Maybe he went with Lando or ran across the street to help Holdo with something. I’m upset with myself for once again forgetting his schedule. I probably should try to be a better wife, I start to remind myself before remembering I’m intending to leave him today.

That unhappy realization does nothing for my state of mind.

My dream still haunts me.

_Good-bye, Rey._

My uneasiness grows as I steel myself to do what I need to do, showering and getting dressed robotically as I say one last farewell to the only home I’ve ever really known. Bad things happened here, but not all of it was bad. There was good, too. I try to memorize the colors on the walls, the furniture we picked together, the way the refinished floors gleam in the morning light. I avoid the front bedroom for many reasons. I'll save that room for last. 

I’m taking my time and it’s getting late in the morning and Ben still isn’t here. I assume he maybe caught a ride to work with a co-worker. Sometimes he does that, although I don't know why. I never asked him things like that, things about his life, his habits. I always waited for him to tell me, but I wonder if he would have told me more, had I only thought to ask.

Still, he usually mentions if he's changing the routine, doing something out of order. He knows I like stability. He knows...me. 

His Glock isn’t in its usual spot on top of our dresser. But something feels strange.

I wonder if I should just go. A sudden sense of urgency prods at me to hurry.

I wander outside to the hydrangeas, my last thing before I go through the house one last time. I can’t leave and not say goodbye to _them_.

I kneel in the grass, and I can immediately tell something is off. A tuft of grass has been dug up and replaced. Too small for it to be _her_ …but what?

I lift the little clod of dirt and peer in the hole, any words I might have whispered in final parting temporarily forgotten.

It catches my eye in the morning sunlight. A glint of metal, shiny. Gold.

Ben’s gold cross.

My heart begins to pound a sickening cadence.

_Good-bye, Rey._

Did he actually say that to me last night?

Wait. No.

_No no no no no._

The little cross gleams up at me in shiny contradiction.

And I know. I know what he means to do.

“No.” I say aloud. “Hell, no.”

That son of a bitch.

I don’t fucking think so.

I run into the house and slam open the door to the baby’s room. 

A black duffel bag sits on the changing table and I rush to open it.

I unzip the bag and find exactly what I expect. Nearly three-quarters of a million dollars in cold hard cash and a one-pound brick of top-market heroin.

That little plastic-wrapped brick tempts me briefly.

I could take it. I could keep it. I could have just a little bit.

_Maybe just a –_

_No. Oh God, what am I doing?_

With shaking hands, I shove it into the bag and drag the zipper shut and loop the bag’s strap over my shoulder and notice a few other objects sitting under the bag.

A familiar little black book. Snoke’s book. And a Bible. And tucked inside that, a folded sheet of paper with my name on it.

 _Rey_.

Ben has beautiful penmanship, I think randomly, even as I hastily unfold the paper, my pulse thundering in my ears as I read.

_I guess I’ll be gone before you find this._

_Snoke’s accounts are coded, like you said. The cipher is a bible verse, I marked it for you. I figured it out about two seconds after we looked at it that first time. I just didn’t want to say._

_I think I wanted it to last forever. Having a family, I mean. Never thought I’d have anything like it, but nothing that good can last. Not for the likes of me._

_When I took you, I did everything I could to fuck things up and you did your best to love me in spite of it. More than a worthless sinner like me ever deserved. But we both know some things are beyond forgiveness. I’ve always known, and so have you._

_I could always tell when you’re lying, Rey. Didn’t take anything special to figure it out, I just knew. Every time. I even knew about Teedo, although I guess if you can forgive me for being a bastard, I can forgive you for conning me into killing one. He was a piece of shit anyhow. Would have done his best to hurt you right alongside Hux and the others if he had the chance. Everything that happened after, none of it was your fault. It was mine. Don’t you blame yourself for any of it._

_Take the money and go far away from here. Live a good life, and give our kid a good life, too. I’ll do my best to keep my promise and wipe out the rest of your monsters if I can. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll get them for you._

He didn’t even sign it and for some reason this _infuriates_ me.

He knows. He knew right away I was lying about being pregnant. I briefly examine the small Bible. The kind they hand out for free at homeless shelters and churches. This one looks _quite_ old.

Just inside the cover is an inscription in unfamiliar handwriting – _Property of Rev. Hanson B. Solo_ – and I know immediately it once belonged to Ben’s father. I’m not sure how it came to be in Ben’s hands. Maybe it's one of Ben's stupid _souvenirs_. 

I’d look at it more closely, but my vision is starting to glow red around the edges.

Because I’m furious.

He fucking left me.

He fucking made me fall in love with him and then he _left_.

 _But you were going to leave him_ , a small voice argues at the back of my mind. And more loudly, _Well, what the hell do I do now?_

I have no doubt in my mind he doesn’t intend to come back from whatever it is he’s planning on doing.

Shit, I’ve been wasting time all morning when I should be figuring this out. Dammit.

I try to think, but it hurts to think. 

I can see two paths before me, clear as day. I imagine one is safe. I can walk down that path and it will lead me far away. My baby and I will survive, and I will be free. It’s a good path. A safe path.

But safety is an illusion.

And surviving is not living, as I damned well know.

The other path is treacherous. I can take it and risk everything. I'd be gambling with more than just my life.

I think about Hannah. She never would have stood a chance, even if she’d lived. Not with the junkie mother and monster father we were back then…

But now? I am not that Rey.

And Ben isn’t Kylo Ren anymore.

We’ve changed, been eroded and shaped by the elements and each other. We made a life together. Maybe it's fucked up. But it's a hell of a lot better than either one of us ever had before. 

And this next baby can have a chance at something Ben's family couldn't give him and mine never cared to give me: A stable home. A good life. Parents who love her.

That is the life I want. The thing Ben always knew about me because he wanted it, too. Because we’re the fucking same.

I can take the dangerous path. Risk everything and try to get him back. Pull him from the brink before he does something stupid, if he hasn’t already done it.

I just need to think.

No. I need to _hurry_.

I need to hurry, if I’m to salvage it, that life I can’t live without him.

I need help, and I need to hurry.

I run to our room and dig out the .38 and a box of bullets and on a last-second whim, I grab the black duffel bag before running for the Mustang. 

Maybe if I stay with Ben, I’ll have traded my soul for something dark.

But I suppose I can live without a soul.

And Ben is my heart. I can’t live without one of those.

I parked a few blocks away, banking on Kylo Ren’s car being recognizable and therefore hopefully unfuckwithable. I’ve been watching the bench in front of the out-of-business convenience store for ages, and I’m getting nervous about Ben. I hope he’s okay.

I have no idea where to find him, but I think there’s someone who can help. My heartbeat thuds to a full stop when I see the old man who maybe isn’t so old after all, shuffling forward, leaning heavily on his rickety walker.

_Bobbajo._

Before I lose my nerve, I stroll boldly to the bench and settle beside him.

“Hey there, pretty girl.” His voice is growly, and I am positive he recognizes me. He doesn’t look very happy to see me. Probably because last time we saw each other he inadvertently traded me a shitload of money for some baking soda. “You gonna be chatty today?”

He spits casually onto the sidewalk, and I try not to flinch in disgust.

Instead, I set my brick of heroin on the bench between us and inspect my fingernails in what I hope is a casual gesture.

“This is uncut Hosnian Prime. A pound of it.”

“What’s Hosnian Prime?” he grunts sarcastically.

I turn to look him in the eyes. “I’m not a narc. This is from me and…Kylo Ren. To make up for what we did. To make things right. So we’re square.”

He nods, his eyes moving instinctively to the brick.

I tell him, “Kylo’s finished with all this. Finished when Snoke was killed. We’re done. We just… _I_ don’t want any trouble and we…I need your help.”

I try to interject my tone with an authoritative bite, but I know I sound more desperate than I intended. My hand falls unconsciously to my abdomen before I realize the significance of the gesture.

I tighten my jaw and make as if to sweep an invisible piece of lint off my thigh, trying to cover the motion.

But damn Bobbajo doesn’t miss a thing, _especially_ not that.

He nods and mumbles, “If that’s what you say it is, we’re square. Won’t be no trouble. Not from me anyhow.”

_Okay. Okay, good._

I smile, relieved. His eyes twinkle into mine and I decide I don’t hate him.

“I can try ta help ya, but I dunno if I can until ya tell me whatcha want.”

I swallow and take a deep breath. “I just need to know where Kylo is. Or Tasu Leech.”

Bobbajo looks at me curiously. “You don’t know? You didn’t hear?”

“Don’t know what?”

“Tasu Leech is dead. Butchered like a dog, early this morning."

_Now’s there’s only one._

Bobbajo watches me with faint surprise. "Someone finally gave up his location...”

“They did?” I gasp. “Who–?”

“Well _I_ did. Kylo paid me a visit earlier. Gave me somethin’ I couldn’t refuse in exchange. Said he didn’t want trouble.” 

My mind is whirling. What could Ben _possibly_ have given him if I have all our cash and the H and Snoke’s book?

Bobbajo laughs, reading my incredulous expression. “Ren promised he’d hook me up with Snoke’s suppliers if he survives taking out Kanjiklub for me. Seeing as Snoke is gone.”

I’ll have to assume that’s a good deal, since Bobbajo seems happy about it, although I really don't like the sound of _if he survives._

I’m about to ask Bobbajo for more, when I see his eyes flicker past me to someone down the block walking towards us. “You take yourself off, now. Got someone else coming to sit in that spot.”

I try to think of another relevant question. “Can you…tell me where I might find, um, Crokind Shand?”

“I assume he is where he always is this time of day.”

“Where’s that?”

“You blind, girl?” he asks, confused.

He nods to the person approaching from down the block. “That’s him right th- aw, shit.”

We both realize at the same time just how much trouble is headed our way.

_Shit._

“ _Shand_ is the one meeting you here? Does he _know_ Kylo is coming for him?” I hiss to Bobbajo, watching him sweep my heroin into his overlarge pocket in a masterful sleight of hand.

“Well, I expect he probly _does_ know, now that I think on it.”

If Shand is walking around, boldly out in the open, he’d be a fool not to bring reinforcements. I don’t see anyone else.

Which means…either he’s got men hidden around waiting to ambush Ben…or Ben is already dead and I’m all alone.

“Shit.” Bobbajo mutters, echoing my thoughts out loud. “You run along, girl. I’ll make sure you get a head start.”

Every instinct in me tells me I absolutely should run. But predators always chase creatures that run. A surge of bile crawls up the back of my throat.

I can feel unfriendly eyes on me, even if I cannot see them.

“It’s too late,” I whisper to Bobbajo.

Ben isn’t here and Shand is getting closer. And the instant he recognizes me, he’ll either murder me outright or use me to lure Ben into the open.

I’m trapped. “Help me now,” I mutter, “and I’ll give you three-quarters of a million dollars. Cash. Today.”

Bobbajo snorts quietly, “Words of a desperate woman don’t mean much to me. How do I know you ain’t lyin’?”

“I swear it on my baby’s life.” My voice doesn’t even shake. “Help me. Please.”

Shand is almost on us.

Trapped. I’m fucking trapped.

Bobbajo shakes his head and glares at me.

“I fuckin’ _hate_ trouble,” he scowls. “ _Damn_.”

I can’t help but shriek when Bobbajo drags me by the hair, moving fast as a snake. I’m bent awkwardly across him, definitely more human shield than hostage. A meaty forearm wraps around my neck and I catch the glint of a blade coming at my face.

_Where the fuck did that come from?_

Another massive fist pins my wrists behind me, flexing with deadly warning.

_Don’t move._

The hand holding the knife against my face is rock-steady.

“Hold still,” he grunts into my hair. His grip on my wrists loosens a fraction. I think this means he’s going to help me, although I’m not sure how this will–

Shand strolls up and Bobbajo grunts, “This bitch is looking for Kylo Ren. Know anything about it?”

Shand’s slimy gaze makes my skin crawl with revulsion. It takes a few seconds of leering, but when he recognizes me, I want to spit on him. But I play along and pretend to be scared. It’s not hard to pretend.

I’m fucking terrified.

I hope Bobbajo can feel the .38 tucked into the back of my jeans. I have no idea if he knows how to shoot, but I have a sneaking suspicion he can at least handle the knife he’s jabbing in my face.

Shand smirks and my stomach nearly turns over as he eyes me up and down with horrible familiarity. “This is Ren’s bitch. Heard he was lookin’ for me and knew I’d be headed here. Fuckin’ coward won’t come out and play.” Shand looks around expectedly and confirms what I suspected. He has sentries hiding nearby, waiting. I guess that means as far as anyone knows, Ben is alive, but...

Shit. Fuck, I’m in trouble.

Bobbajo jerks his knife against me and I cry out as the blade bites into my cheek, drawing blood.

“I don’t want no trouble, and you bring your fuckin’ _gang_ here?” Bobbajo suddenly sounds cold and ruthless and horrible. I’m starting to think I’ve made a mistake.

Shand shakes his head, running a lascivious gaze over me and not looking too concerned at Bobbajo’s ire.

“Won’t be no trouble, Boba. It’s just Ren took out a couple a guys this morning. Before he got to Leech. I only brought two and you can’t get mad over that…you’d want extra guns too, if you seen what he did to Leech, even if he did get pretty bad cut himself.”

At this news, I want to burst into tears. Ben’s hurt?

_Where is he? Oh, God. Please let him be okay._

I tense up, but Bobbajo doesn’t lessen his grip. He grumbles, “Heard about Leech. Ren carved him up like a Christmas ham, and half a Kanjiklub, too. He ain’t here. And if he ain’t comin’ for his lady, then he ain’t comin’ at all.”

“You sure?” Shand looks skeptical.

“Wouldn’t lie ‘bout that. He did me dirty on that last deal, you might recall. I ain't got no love for 'im.”

Shand nods agreeably, and I feel Bobbajo slip a hand under the back of my shirt. He pats me, and it’s a signal, I think. He’s going for my gun, but still holding his knife on me with his other hand. It takes all my willpower to leave my hands behind me when he releases them and slides my gun free.

“Call off your guys and I’ll let you have the girl. Don’t want no trouble.”

“I _will_ take the girl at that.” Shand’s eyes turn dark with malice and I go cold inside. “Remember me, cutie? I think you do.” I glare at him but I’m afraid to move and give away the fact Bobbajo is holding my gun.

I wish desperately Ben was here.

“Think I’ll keep you all to myself this time.” Shand’s gaze slithers over me again before he turns and walks to the center of the abandoned street. He waves a hand, clearly gesturing for his men to come out.

But nobody appears.

Shand spins and calls out, “Raz? Kanji?”

“Not here.” I’d recognize that evil growl anywhere, and I sigh in relief. I look up to see Ben slinking from a doorway just down the street. He looks quite murderous, his face pale as death. He holds a wicked-long stiletto and there’s no real cover as he approaches.

Shand is drawing his gun and I wonder wildly why Ben isn’t shooting him – _you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, Ben!_ – and it occurs to me Ben doesn’t have a gun or he most _definitely_ would shoot.

He’s going to kill Ben, so I scream, “Ben!” All of a sudden Shand is aiming and firing as Ben ducks into a shallow doorway.

Bobbajo shoves me off him and empties the .38 at Shand, but fuck, his aim is god-awful.

Nothing hits, not a damn thing, and all I can think, I swear to God, is _you have to factor in adrenaline, dipshit._

Shand whirls and glares at Bobbajo holding my empty .38 and he looks ready to pounce, but Ben is running towards us, too. Ben’s still too far away by the time Shand sees his opportunity. It’s me.

I’m closest, so he grabs me by the hair with a vicious yank and points his gun right at my head.

Ben slows up, watching Shand like a hungry panther.

“You’ve got two shots left,” I choke out. I say it to Shand, but I’m looking at Ben.

“Shut up, bitch,” Shand hisses, shoving the gun hard into the side of my head.

“You can waste a shot on me, but that’s a helluva gamble,” I taunt. He starts dragging me backwards. Bobbajo steps forward and Shand screams, “Back the fuck away motherfucker!”

Shand is glancing wildly between Bobbajo and Ben, who looks positively demonic prowling back and forth, just behind an invisible line.

“I don’t want trouble,” Bobbajo cajoles. “Let her go and there won’t be none.” 

“Oh, no. There’s _gonna_ be trouble,” Ben bites out, flipping his stiletto in hand and making Shand back away in panic even more. “If you’re smart, you’ll shoot me to slow me up and use that last bullet on yourself. Because it’s gonna take more than one shot to bring me down. And if you don't? I’m gonna gut ya like a fish…” He bares his teeth, a rabid animal that's slipped its chain.

Shand shifts his aim to try to cover Ben and Bobbajo with alternating sweeps of his arm. His other arm crushes against my throat, hard enough to choke me out.

But if I’ve learned anything from living with Ben fucking Solo all this time, it’s how to fight dirty. And I’m quite the little fighter, just like he always says.

Instead of hanging on to Shand’s arm and trying to pull him off me, I let go and drop a hand to his crotch, finding a soft handful of flesh to wrench on as hard as I can. The result is instant and satisfying.

“Bitch!” he yells, predictably dropping me to double over and clutch one-handed at his groin. But he’s still got his gun and he’s pointing it at me, now.

I hear a gunshot and feel a hot stone slice through my arm and I wonder for just a flash of a second where it came from and why it feels like a blowtorch. My knees and palms are scraped as they slam into the sidewalk.

_That fucker shot me._

A flurry of motion catches the edge of my consciousness and I can’t move. I’m falling.

That’s weird.

My ears ring and I hear something, a hoarse choking cry ripped from the throat of a dying animal. But I’m frozen, trapped, can't move, and I’m going to die and Ben won’t know why I _did_ it, why I’m really here, and how I changed my mind and I love him and I won’t leave, not if he promises he won’t leave either, and when the final shot comes, I don’t even feel it.

The last thing I feel is the cold, hard sidewalk scraping my cheek before everything goes black.

Rough, familiar hands lift me, and I hear voices.

“Is she hit? Oh, God, please no.” It’s Ben. He sounds out of breath.

“Little lady’s okay, only nicked in the arm. Just fainted, I think. Probly from havin’ a bun in the oven.”

“How the _fuck_ do you know that?” 

Bobbajo replies evenly, “She just told me. Swore she’d give me a big ole pile of cash if I help her, too, but I dunno it’s a promise she can keep seein’ as I don’t believe it.”

“She said that, huh?”

“I did,” I rasp, blinking my eyes open. Ben hovers beside me and I smile weakly. He’s frowning.

_What the hell is he mad about?_

Damn bastard was going to leave me.

I scowl back at him. Before I can stop myself, I pull back my fist and sock him in the mouth.

“Ow! The fuck?”

“What the hell were you waiting for?” I shout. “Didn’t you see Shand coming this way? Why don’t you have a gun? Why did you leave your cross at home?”

I burst into tears.

He glowers at me. “What the _hell_ are you doing here? You should be two states away by now, goddammit.”

I shrug and sniff, suddenly unable to meet his searing black gaze.

“Um...You folks might wanna move things along," Bobbajo prompts. He's watching us but looking up and down the street, too. "On account of all the gunshots? And the likelihood of cops comin' around?”

“Response time for this part of town is seventeen minutes," Ben snaps. But his expression softens a bit. "But, yeah, we're leavin'. And as far as anyone’s concerned-” he says firmly to Bobbajo, “-Kylo Ren is _dead_.”

“I just don’t want no trouble,” Bobbajo mutters, holding up his hands and moving towards his walker.

“Where’d ya park?” Ben grumbles as he lifts me into his arms.

I tell him and gesture for Bobbajo to follow us. I’ll be damned if someone calls me a liar.

He can have the damn cash.

Ben scowls at Bobbajo as he comprehends my intentions and then turns his glare back to me.

“Shouldn’t we discuss major purchases ahead of time, honey?”

He's scowling and grumpy and making a joke, and I realize I fucking love him. I love the way he smells and the way he chuckles when I do something he thinks is funny, and the way he reminds me to buckle up every single time I get in the car if I don't do it first thing. I love his cooking and the way he watches me sometimes, like he's trying to memorize everything about me. I love that he doesn’t care if I catch him watching. I love how he can read me like a book, and I can’t read a damn thing off him unless he’s pissed.

I love the way he holds me when I wake up from a bad dream and mostly, I love the way he kisses me.

Like we are in love.

He’s my monster, dammit. My beast.

I crane my neck at Shand sprawled gruesomely on the pavement with a bloody gash across his neck and blossoms of red staining the front of his shirt where Ben most obviously slit his throat and stabbed him a few times for good measure.

I wriggle uncomfortably as a fiery streak of pain shoots through my arm. My movement makes Ben grimace. His arms are trembling, and I briefly remember Shand mentioned he was injured earlier…

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.”

Bobbajo walks with us to the Mustang, and Ben sets me down none-too-gently so I can snatch the black duffel bag from the trunk and hand it over to my erstwhile helper.

He grins and shambles away with surprising speed. Maybe not so surprising, actually.

“I oughtta beat your ass for coming down here,” Ben huffs under his breath.

I dive for him and he pulls me into a bear hug. I can hear his heartbeat and I clutch him to me.

“I’m sorry I lied,” I mutter. “And for thinking about leaving.”

“We’ll talk about it when we get home.” His voice is low and velvet, tinted with betrayal. And hurt. And something else.

_The only monster you need to worry about anymore is me._

A kiss, soft as a butterfly’s wings, brushes the side of my neck over a very, very old scar in the shape of slightly crooked teeth.

I compose my expression as best I can and finally look at him.

“You said you loved me,” I whisper, daring to meet his amber-whiskey gaze. I can’t read him, never really could when he gets like this. I can’t tell if I’m dealing with a sweet teddy bear or rampaging beast or something else altogether.

He does that thing with his mouth he does when he’s thinking, like he’s rolling the words around between the roof of his mouth and the flat of his tongue before he lets them out.

He leans close and presses his forehead against mine. “You done lyin’?”

A tear slips down my face.

I nod my head _yes_.

Another tear slips down my cheek, then another. It’s probably hormones, but the ache of _everything_ hits me in waves as it rises to the surface. I press my lips together to keep the words from escaping. I try. But I can’t hold them in. So I just start babbling.

“When I found out for sure…Ben, I just _couldn’t_ risk it…they were still out there and…and you _promised_ I’d be safe, but _she_ found me and took me to Snoke even after that, and I _knew_. I knew you’d never let me go and...you’d _never_ leave her, Hannah, and I _knew_ I’d never really be safe…and…what if they’d come back for me, Ben? I didn’t have a choice.”

His eyes flash with some unfathomable thing. A weird sort of eagerness that I understand, now. It’s that thing we all feel when we know full well we’re in the midst of royally fucking something up, but we still hope the person we’re hurting will forgive us, eventually.

“You don’t have to worry about them anymore. They’re all dead, baby. We got ‘em.”

And suddenly I’m sobbing and he’s kissing the top of my head and murmuring over and over, “It’s okay, they’re all gone, it’s okay, I swear.”

“…you’ll forgive me?” I sniff.

“Well, that’s a two-way street, baby girl. And your side of the road is gonna be a lot rougher than mine.”

But he seems to sense some non-existent hesitation and he says, “We…we don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. I’ll try…I’ll…do anything you want. Anything. I can be _good_ …I swear. I swear to God I will or die trying.”

I run my fingers through his silky dark hair, soft like the softest fur I ever touched.

He whispers, “Please.”

“I just want to go home,” I sigh. “ _But_. We’ll have to try a little harder to keep the noise down.”

The tiniest chuckle escapes him. “No more gunshots in the living room?”

“No more torturing bad guys in the toolshed,” I continue.

Another head shake and his eyes do that squinting smile I’ve always adored.

I grow serious again. “You promised you would be my last…”

He nods in agreement. “I did.”

“If you _meant_ it, when you said that…then I’m your last, too.” I try for stern, and I know he’s still upset, still injured.

Maybe the cuts I made go deeper than anything he ever did to me. I don’t know.

I know this isn’t the end of this conversation. He’ll probably demand some kind of penance out of me before he really lets it go. And I have to let some stuff go, too.

It might take some time. It might take the rest of our lives.

But I think we can find a way.

He’ll come around.

Hope rises inside me. Maybe it’s been there this whole time, dormant and cracked and fucked-up and broken.

But now, for the first time, it’s awake.

“Kill the past?”

“Okay, baby.”

“Nothing else matters. Except this. Right here.” I press my hand over his heart, and something flashes in his eyes, that indefinable _thing_ that separates us from the animals.

I think it’s love. Compassion. Belonging. I don’t know.

Maybe it’s real, what this is.

I _am_ good at waiting. And salvaging broken things.

If ever a broken thing needs salvaging, it’s my monster of a husband.

I know he’ll love me for the rest of my life. If I just let him.

Maybe Madam Sunshine got something right after all.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> #REYLOISCANON, the END. (Or is it? UPDATE: It's May of 2020 and I am planning a sequel. Not sure exactly when, since I have 1.7 million WIPs to finish, but oohhh do I have more to this story...)
> 
> This fic has been challenging and rewarding and terrifying and an adventure. I love you all, every damn one of you, for sharing and reading and especially for loving these two space idiots as much as I do. 
> 
> If you like dark Reylo, I've got something rather big in the works, coming soon...so stay tuned, my darlings. XOXO!!! (Update: Posted a new fic called House of The Rising Sun and it's gonna be wild!)
> 
> It is not easy to try to live in the light when sometimes you dream in darkness. 
> 
> For those of you who were brave enough and inspired enough to create and share your artwork for this story, well, I think this story belongs to you, too. ❤
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@beegood_amy](https://twitter.com/beegood_amy)!
> 
> My works:
> 
> A/B/O  
> [House of The Rising Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512809/chapters/51276604) (A/B/O, Epic Scale Fantasy with a Canon-flavor, Read the tags)  
> [First Knot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978156) (Preylo, A/B/O, quick and FILTHY)  
> [Bad Neighbors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874359) (A/B/O, cop/lawyer, enemies-to-lovers, COMPLETE, now with EVEN MORE smut!)  
> [Knotting Hill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038721) (A/B/O WIP, mobsters and shenanigans)  
>   
> Darker Stuff:  
> [Body of Work](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24723547/chapters/59762740) (Soulmates, Killers, WIP)  
> [Little Animals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902718) (DARKFIC, SMUT, Read the Tags, COMPLETE)  
> [Devil on the Dark Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287023) (Modern Hades/Persephone Fairy Tale WIP, one more chapter to go!)  
> [GatorWestern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502323) (Vampire/Horror WIP, almost done!)  
>   
> Short and Smutty:  
> [Smoke Gets In Your Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231210) (Short fic, stoner soulmates, filthy smut, COMPLETE!)  
> [Fire Down Below](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659043/chapters/49061249) (Filthy two-shot, Porn AU, crack, COMPLETE!)  
> [Freak Show](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1098873) (Circus AU, Comedy, one-shot series)  
> [Special Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836562) (one-shot)  
> [Urinal Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412686) (one-shot, no urine or cakes involved, I swear!)  
>   
> Long and Plotty (and also Smutty):  
> [Say It With Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710287) (Funny, Escort/Sugar Daddy AU, smutty, COMPLETE!)  
> [Music To My Ears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121106) (Classical Music/Assassins AU, re-booting WIP)  
>   
> Although my WIPs are in varying stages of progress, I can promise none of them are abandoned, just resting. :)
> 
> XOXO!


End file.
